“Do it!” he said, before hitting you again.

“Agghhh!” you cried, a plea for help heard by no one but the two who tormented you and the trees that watched. You clutched a fistful of dead leaves in your palms, a futile effort to stop the pain that exploded in you as one of their boots hit your stomach. Always your stomach. So it wouldn’t leave a bruise, and nobody could see. That way you couldn’t tell anyone even if you wanted to.

One of them started laughing. A distinct high-pitched laugh. This caused you to cringe. You knew what that laugh meant. He had just gotten an idea.

“Let’s shove leaves up his ass!”

“No, no, no, don’t!” you begged.

“Ha ha ha. Let’s do it.”

You felt the cold air invade your nether regions as they lost the warm comfort of your pants and long johns. “Please don’t!” you screamed. You gritted your teeth as you felt the ice cold, dry leaves up against your bare butt crack. You gritted your teeth as the tears flew out. “Okay! Okay! I’ll do it. Stop!” you wailed.

And just then, you felt the leaves drop. They let go. And that’s when the tears really came. Your mom’s face flashed in your mind. You could hear her whistling behind the bathroom door as the steamy water ran. What happened behind that door was never anything you had to pay any attention to.


His boot hit you in your bare testicles.

It was a solid second before it registered. You fell face first into a pile of leaves, biting into them as the pain finally came, radiating from your testicles, all through your thighs and, worst of all, in your stomach, as if you were violently ill.

One of them flipped your over by your ankles and pulled your legs apart, giving the other one the undefended bullseye he was looking for. He lifted his foot. You cringed.

As he stood there, his foot suspended in striking position, he asked, “you swear?”

And without a moment’s notice, your mom’s worth and dignity meaning nothing to you now, 16 years of unconditional love meaning nothing to you when weighed up against the coming pain, just for that one second, you said “yes! Yes! I’ll do it, I swear!”

They let you go.

And you knew then that it was over. The pain would stop. And you thanked god you had finally escaped it. You didn’t care what you had to do. You felt no shame. At least not yet. You would have done anything to escape the feeling of that booted foot being driven into your testicle. But after getting up, and walking off, with the sound of them taunting you in the distance, and the fear of any pain to come distant with them, it all finally hit you.

And the tight, warped feeling in your stomach from having your testicles kicked-in was nothing compared to the shame of what you agreed to under duress. The lump in your throat was as big as the new lump in your pocket. You didn’t cry, so much as scream into the cool bark of the tree next to you.

You ended up getting home 45 minutes after your usual time, having to take while to dry your eyes so your mom wouldn’t notice. It apparently worked.

“Hi sweety!”

“Hi mom,” you said, finding it impossible to look into her eyes.

Then in a completely different tone of voice, almost giving you whiplash, she said “are you okay?”

Your eyes shot up and met hers, big and blue and full of concern. She could see it radiating off of you, dry eyes or not, that you weren’t okay. A woman’s instincts were like magic. The love and concern they have for their sons even more so. And you could see that magic in every inch of her bone structure, and the expression it wore.

You looked down, your eyes just catching the shape of her breasts in passing as you did. They’re just breasts, you thought to yourself. They’re not my mom, and my mom isn’t them.This meaningless platitude bought you enough time and emotional fortitude to give you the strength to offset your mom’s suspicions.

You looked up at her, confidently, and said “Nothing’s wrong. I’m doing great, mom,” with a face almost as pretty as hers, in a quaint and geeky sort of way.

It must have worked. The sense of relief that radiated from her was infectious, so much so that your trouble started to evaporate, for a mere second or two, before rushing back as you passed her and headed for the bathroom.

Your eyes were red as soon as you closed the door behind you, and because you couldn’t remove the knot from your throat, you removed the one from your pocket instead. Then you removed the black sock from your foot and placed the knot from your pocket within it, positioning its lens so that it peaked through a tiny hole in the sock.

You emptied out the laundry basket halfway, and then put the sock inside, so that its hole lined up with the hole on the side of the basket(the basket was made of plastic and was made with holes inches apart from eachother). You then covered it all in the top layer of clothes delicately so as to not disturb your perfect set up. You wiped tears from your eyes. They were subsisting for now. The technical aspects of what you were doing were enough to keep your mind off things. In other words, doing exactly what you feared doing strangely helped to relinquish the fear and horror of actually doing it.

That fear and horror came back as soon as you got on your knees and looked into the sock to make sure you got a good angle. It was filming, and it had just caught you looking into its existence. Not that there would be any doubt or obscurity about who planted the tree to those who were lucky enough to catch its falling fruit. Your bullies were sure to make sure everyone knew it was you, and make sure everyone knew it was them who made you do it. But it was just the thought of your face, perfectly framed and captured, your tongue between your lips in concentration, which would preface the atrocity you were about to give everyone, that really made you upset.

After you were done, you just stood up and stood there for a second, your set up as real as ever, only below you now, You suddenly sucked in air, then you held your hand to your mouth in response. Tears falling down to warm your knuckles.

You turned around, and with one bare foot, headed to your room, where you shut the door, the change in scenery as subtle as a kick to the balls. You buried your face in your pillow.

You skipped dinner that night, assuring your mom that you ate something before you came home and weren’t hungry. You didn’t leave your bed until the next morning.

You woke up to the sound of your mom whistling, It had all the beauty of a song from a nightingale. It made you smile. But when you realized that the whistling was muffled by the weight of the bathroom door, and and all the warm, damp air contained within, the newness of this morning hit you in the gut like a sudden boot.

You hated yourself more than anyone else in that instant.

You should have taken that beating like a man.

But would you have been able to?


Would you have been able to do it twice?


How about three time? Maybe four?

But you had to try, right? Face the beating and its inevitability and the inevitability that you would eventually give in, or they would eventually win in another way, just so that you could know that you tried.


Or maybe there was only you. Maybe you were wrong to put up any fight at all and not just give them what they wanted from the jump. What difference would it make? The pain would be less, but the outcome would be the same. And then you could at least own what you did.

But thinking this way wasn’t the same as feeling it. Your emotions were at war with you now. And as psychological warfare against your cold, hard solipsism, they screamed in your ear while holding up images from your youth. Images of your mom on your birthday, blowing out the candles with you, or slaving over the stove, trying to make you a meal. The feeling of her hand guiding yours as she helped you with your homework, The feeling of her hand on your lower back as she pushed you off down the street and you pedaled and pedaled and finally you could feel the bike staying upright, and the freedom you’ve felt, unlike any before, and you turned around to see her smiling face, reflecting your excitement back at you, reliving all that lost joy through you.

And then your foot slipped off the pedal. And you slipped forward. And your balls hit the handle bars. And you fell over, screaming in pain as her expression dropped, and was replaced by yours, feeling every ounce of you pain in the testicles she never had.

And then you saw your naked testicles in the cold air, the leaves at your side. And those giant timberland boots, winding up, ready to stomp.

The shower had stopped and your mom was just finishing up. When the bathroom door opened up, and the warm steam tumbled out, you ran into the bathroom just as she left it. Her double D bra was at the top of the laundry basket stack. You threw it all aside and reached in for the camera, having trouble finding it as first, but taking a sigh of relief as you felt its stiff presence, all wrapped in black cotton, in your trembling fingers.

You brought it to your room and shut your door. You had to be quick. School was only an hour off, and you didn’t want to think about what they would do to you if you were late.

You couldn’t plug the knot in your stomach into your PC, so instead you plugged in the knot in your hand.

You wasted a solid minute staring at the video file, afraid to click. Afraid that you failed, and even more afraid that you succeeded. You double clicked. The first thing you saw was spiraling light and then a muffled darkness, until a pinhole of light came into frame, and then two fleshy thumbs tore that pinhole wider, and then more wild movement until finally all movement stopped as the camera was cradled by a high chair of clothes. Through the circular black frame of the sock, you could see your shower almost perfectly. You trembled at the sight. Then another major vibration, sinking the camera only slightly, but, if anything, only making your view of the shower better.

You kept your tongue in between your lips as you watched your past-self, the invisible cameraman, doing his work, hoping he’d succeed. All blissful loss of concern that came with the logistics inherit in the moment faded as your own face, just 15 hours ago, came into view, tongue between his lips like you were doing now.

You gasped at seeing your worst enemy face to face. And as if he felt the same seeing you, his bottom lip quivered before he disappeared from sight. Now only his kneecaps were visible. A few drops of water landed on them before he turned and left the room.

And then suddenly, and without warning, the feed did a jumpcut to the next instance of motion detection. Your mom’s pajama-clad ass came into view. And in no time at all it became her panty-clad ass. And then, last but definitely most as far as the dueling fates of your testicles and soul were concerned, your mom’s bare ass.

You involuntarily sucked back air. A kaleidoscope of hellish imagery did a waltz through your mind. Those two grinning faces. That distinct, hellish laugh, their twinkling eyes as your mom’s ass was reflected into them.

You could barely see your mom’s newly bared tits through the tears. She hopped into the shower, one leg at a time, giving a great view of her in-motion ass and her swinging breasts. She turned on the shower with one hand in front of her and slightly backed off at its unwelcome chilliness. Then she waited for it to adjust, a moment nobody was supposed to see, before plunging herself into the steamy gravitation pull that existed between the showerhead and the bottom of the tub. The same gravitational pull that had her tits swinging so pleasantly and her feet making such music against the inner curves of the tub.

She soaped herself up, causing you to cringe, reminded of the comments they made about your mom’s soapy body.

Why couldn’t it just be a rinse? Just for today? Just so they wouldn’t have the satisfaction?

When your mom lifted each breast to scrub underneath it and even passed her hand between her two hungry butt cheeks you hit your bed with your fist. You wanted to hit your computer, but you were afraid you’d damage the camera and the footage with it.

Your mom spun around a few more times, indeliberately, in her ballet of ignorance and unaware freedom from all worldly vice, wrapping circles of invisible delight around herself until it squeezed her tightly by her waist. Your mom’s hair, done up to avoid the water, was cuter than you’d ever seen it.

Why!? you mouthed to yourself through your red, puffy face. They were getting the show of a lifetimes.

Suddenly, mid-twirl, your mom’s eyes stopped twirling with her, and they stayed in place, causing the rest of her, once catching the memo, to slow down and face her point of interest.

Which was…


it was you.


She looked into your direction. Your face. Your soul. And before the logic of that being false truly hit you, the look on her face cleared that notion first. It wasn’t a look of terror, or realization. It was a look of confusion. And then of concern. And then a look of subtle-terror. Not terror for herself. The jig wasn’t up. At least not up to the point everything currently had accelerated to. No, it was the subtle terror she felt whenever you came home walking strangely or hiding your eyes from her. You recognized that look from seeing it one too many times. The look you’d do anything to avoid. The look that hurt you more than phsycial pain itself.

Because what she saw, sitting on that black sock, wasn’t the smoking gun you at first feared she’d seen. No. What she saw was the smoke in the distance, not realizing that the fire was already there. She saw the leaves on your sock. And wild images of how they got there danced in her head, as she presented herself perfectly for the invisible eye just centimeters to the left of that leaf.

And as you looked at her, feeling like you failed as a son, she looked at you, feeling like she failed as a mother. Your helplessnesses danced on the same stage, under the same hot spotlight, knowing there was nothing they could do. Your mom saw them, without even knowing who they were. An approximate image of who these boys were. And somehow, she knew there was two of them. That woman’s intuition could do wonders. It could even bring her a few steps ahead, even while she was ultimately a dozen behind.

When she regathered her bearings. She finished off, wiped down the shower, giving her audience a perfect view of that bent over ass, and she exited stage right.

The one bittersweet moment came to you as you ejected the camera and pocketed it, ready to head to school and face whatever it had to bring you. Things weren’t as hopeless as your mom seemed to feel they were. She could help you with your bully problems. In actuality, she already had.



You felt his hand in your pocket and the camera was removed. You just kneeled down on the ground, gasping as the entire lower half of your body exploded with pain.

Everyone there laughed. All 8 of them.

“My mom’s not going to be home tonight,” the one who kicked your testicles said, “I’m throwing a party tonight. Bring your popcorn. It’s movie night.”

The guys cheered and high-fived. Their young glee palpable. Pulling one over on a fully-grown adult woman was something they never experienced before. Sure, they stole a few things from some female teachers, made them contemplate their life direction, and even shoved tennis balls into their exhaust pipes, but now they held the naked image of one of their peer’s moms in their hand. The hottest of their peers’ moms. They had picked the right kid to make life hell for. Some kids tore the wings off of flies, others shoved lit firecrackers into the tail end of frogs.

But that was all generation X and even millennial mischief. Things the rough boys in your mom’s classes did back in the day. Today’s youth, on the other hand, was generation Z, and they had the power to do things your mom’s classmates could only dream of. And just as your mom passed the period where she was susceptible to such indignities, she threw a lifeline in the water with the sharks by giving birth to you. And you just brought the sharks with her into her boat, where she should have been safe.

The other tormentor, having gotten what he wanted from you, grabbed you by the back of of your head and pushed you into a few desks. The only reason why the other one kept all the other kids back was because he knew that they didn’t know about the no-bruises rule. So instead they all watched as their friend fed shots to your unguarded stomach (your hands were protecting your balls.)

That night, you showed up to the place in your dress shirt. Just as they suggested. Your mom was excited to pick one out for you, thinking that you had finally made friends. You tried not to cry as she tightened the buttons of your shirt, and she tried not to cry out of joy, fearing it would embarrass you.

You took a deep breath before you rang the doorbell. When the door opened, you just barely parried a kick to your crouch, and you were forced in. Ironic comments were thrown at you about how handsome you were. One of the guys said “I guess you decided to be fashionably late for the opening screening of your mom’s big break in Hollywood.”

Somebody else said, “two big breaks,” and he held his hands out in front of him as if he were cupping two big breasts which hung from his chest.

Your legs didn’t feel real as you were herded downstairs, between the laughing, pushing jocks. You felt as if no decision or action could be yours. As if you were a spectator within yourself, watching your own actions. You caught a glimpse of your reflection in the metal of a grandfather clock and you were sickened by who you saw, a pig in lipstick, you in your dress shirt. It was the way you felt when you saw yourself at home in that full-body mirror, your mom partially obscuring you with her thick body as she did up the buttons.

When you got down into that man-cave of a basement, you were seated between two of the jocks, both with garrish smiles from ear to ear, occasionally looking over at you, excited by your terror. They knew you had captured something good.

As the host plugged in the camera to the TV, his guests began removing their pants and underwear. When the guy next to you was done, as if he finished putting on his oxygen mask on a turbulent plane, he turned to you and undid your belt. You just watched, unable to move or act in any way as he did. Then when he told you to lift up, you did without question, and he slid your pants out from under you. And then your long johns with them.

The only flaccid cock in the house was yours. It was quite the contrast. You were honestly surprised that it hadn’t been sucked up into yourself. The jock cocks stood firm and excited. You looked severely out of place. Your body pale and thin. Your cock soft, and your face filled with a nauseous worry.

What am I doing here? you asked yourself internally. This can’t be happening.

But it was. You had made sure of it. You looked down at your balls. Your weak spot. They were like a button on your body that made you a slave to whoever was shameless enough to press it. Your mom gave birth to that weak spot. If only she gave birth to a girl. Then her dignity wouldn’t be at risk.

Instead, you were here. About to live the moment of your own betrayal.

Oh, I never should have done it! you thought to yourself. Please let me go back. Please let me try again!

But you couldn’t try again. It was too late. You sold your mom’s fat tits and ass out for 30 pieces of silver. You wanted to die.

And then, like a train coming into station, the video started. The spiraling view at the start made you sick, and it enthralled all the others there. And then when all movement stopped, and the shower came into view and stabilized, you heard nothing but cheers from the legion of pigs around you.

You completely forgot about the next part. Your face dropped into frame, and with your tongue pressed firmly between your lips, you dutifully set up the camera while looking at the crowd you had been setting up the camera for. And then, at the last second before your face lifted, your bottom lip quivered while you stared at your yourself in the future, surrounded by your worst enemies, naked from the waist down, dying a thousand deaths, like all cowards do.

You stared back at yourself more than 24 hours ago. Take it out! you pleaded. Don’t do this, please!

But it was all futile. The past had already been written. You already saw what was to come. The jocks all around you, who were laughing up at your widescreen blubbering face, were right to be laughing. They had already won. It was just a matter of waiting for it. Your quivering lip, both onscreen and off, was in reaction of their victory to come.

When your face lifted, and tears fell down to your jeans, one of the guys said “aww, po baby. He’s cwying. Maybe mommy can make it all better.”

You were crying now. Your mom nowhere in sight to even make an attempt to find out why. Though, if she was there, she’d know.

Then, suddenly, and without your consent, the jumpcut came, and your mom’s pajama-clad ass came into view. The cheering started again. And then her pajama-clad ass became her pantie-clad ass. You could literally see the cocks stiffening beyond stiff in your peripherals. No amount of physical pain was worse than what was about to come.

What have I done? What am I doing? Mommy!

You shot up from the couch and ran towards the camera, too quickly for anyone to react. And as it got closer, suddenly you felt the world rotate, and the now you were looking at the carpet, which was coming closer and closer to you by the millisecond.

You had tripped on your own pants.

Your fell to the floor below, only inches away from the camera. Inches away from the camera, and seconds away from your mom making her ass bare for all. And before you could stretch your arm out to reach, you felt an rising feeling in your testicles and stomach. You reached down for your balls instead and groaned in pain.

And as the audience to your clownshow laughed at what they saw, they looked up to see the panties pulled from your mom’s ass, exposing one big, long uninterrupted butt crack to their eyes.

It was over. They had won.

“You’re going to get a beating after this,” one of them yelled without looking at you.

As you looked up at your totally nude mom stepping into the shower, you saw the reflection of a dozen cocks being worked on that same screen, imposed over the image of your exposed mom. She whistled on, blissfully unaware that she was in her own shower at home, and in her son’s bully’s basement with a bunch of raging hard young men simultaneously.

The image was obscured by your tears, momentarily, before you wiped them away. You felt a brawny hand grab you from behind and lift you up. You were now back on the couch again, where you started. It was as if you never got up to stop this at all. As if you saved yourself that beating.

And as the crowd cheered and hollered disgracefully, your mom, turning her hot delicious body around under the steamy water, caught eyes with her audience.


The crowd’s arrogance reached a fever pitch as their adult victim looked at them and their exposed cocks. Two of the guys came at this point. Your mom looked at her audience, first with curiosity, then with concern, and then finally with terror. Terror at the prospect that something dark and unsaid was happening in her son’s life. Something she couldn’t stop. If only she knew how dark. If only she knew just how deep this rabbit hole went, and that she was at the very bottom of it all. She was there the entire time. Her body was the reason for your torment. And maybe if you didn’t try to be hero, her body would have been the end of your torment as well.

The terror on your mom’s face was the cherry on top. They had done more than anyone in their age group had ever done before them. They had a grown woman, with experience and knowledge and wisdom and responsibilities now bested by their youthful ambitions and naive boundlessness. Her terror only spice up the meat in her ass and titties.

And your tears? They were the seasoning.


As the crowd cleared, you just sat there, unable to move, staring at the trash bin. It was full of used tissues. Your two tormentors came up to you, happy, but not satiated. Not even close. They looked down at you. And you waited. Waited for the beating you had asked for by trying to save your mom’s honor. Your testicles were out for them to do what they wanted with, like a punching bag. You didn’t even attempt to cover them.

But instead of fists coming down to strike it, the first things to come to you was their words.

“That’s going on the internet,” one of them said, while motioning back at the still image of your mom’s naked breasts and wide eyes both staring at the camera. “Any objections?”

You just shook your head. “No,” is all you said.

“Because if you tell anybody about this, they’re going to know that you shot the footage.”

“I know,” you said. You were caught now, in a tight nook on the side of a cliff with a two hundred foot drop.

“So,” the one with the high-pitched laugh asked, “are you read for your beating?”

You just looked up at them, expressionlessly.

He began to laugh that ole’ familiar laugh. You cringed. “Because there’s a way out of all of this.”

You knew that whatever they’d ask for would be worse than the beating itself. But you had to listen. Just out of a sense of sheer curiosity, if not for self-preservation.

He just looked down at you for a few seconds, deliberately trying to build anticipation. Then he finally spit it out. “You ever hear of blue velvet?”

You just stared up at them for a second. They both were smiling like jackals down at you. “Yeah,” you said, trembling.

“Have you ever seen any in person?”

“No,” you said.

He extended his arm with a clenched fist, and then he opened it up. “Well now you have.” The little blue pill with a bluejay on its face, looked up at you, more real than any pain you had ever felt in your life. “So… how about it?”

You knew that doing this wouldn’t stop the bullying. That the pain would come to you at some point, maybe worse than ever. You knew that each victory would only embolden them further. You knew all of this. And you factored it all in before making your decision.

Your mom’s naked form, the very thing at stake, stood motionless behind the two men. Her body was so perfect that it not only came across as unapproachable, but literally untouchable. It wasn’t the type of body that 99% of men would ever have access to. And her face above the whole smoke show looked down at you with those wide blue eyes.

You took a deep breath. Then you exhaled.

“Yes,” you said.

You grabbed the little blue pill form his hand. Their cocks twitched only inches from your face as their grins got wider.

They offered you a ride home, which you accepted. As they went upstairs with the bin and looser pieces of underear to hide this party from the host’s parents, you just sat there, in the silence of the basement, looking at your mom, who was staring back down at you with those blue eyes which expressed a level of concern only a mother could have. Her second pair of eyes, devoid of all emotion and judgement stared at you as they hung off her chest.

You didn’t know which pair of eyes were more beautiful. Those that ached with burdensome love for you and weighed you down with the albatross of tighteous behavior. Or the pair of eyes that just stared, devoid of all judgement an concern. The eyes that only expressed on thing: pure, ethereal bliss.

You looked back up at her. And she, down at you. Both exposed in your nakedness. Her heavenly softness could now be contrasted with you in a way that it couldn’t before. Because now, your cock was hard.


Sorry for the hiatus

Hello guys. I apologize for being awol. My computer no longer functions and it might be a week or two before i have another one. I can’t access discord now either. So if you’re reading this and you use my discord channel can you please inform everyone?

I’ll be back to my usual posts and interactions with you guys as soon as my pc is replaced. So until that happens, feel free to enjoy my older stories. I’m itching yo put out another story for you guys and i can’t wait til i have the means to do so again. See you all as soon as i do.

The Tortoise and the Hare

Your mom was an amazingly dynamic person. But of all of her many glowing traits, arguably the greatest of all was hidden within the deceptive confines of her jeans. Your mom had an immaculate ass. Only you and your brother knew this. Well, you, your brother and your dad. But dead men tell no tales. Your mom’s father, also dead, was another of a small kabal of males who knew about just how perfect your mom’s ass was.

He watched in horror as she grew up, and it grew up with her, and grew up out of proportion with her. And though he was happy to see her develop a conservative form of dress, and even more happy to see her dating a man as distinguished and respectful as your father, you were sure it was his ever constant worrying over the fate of your mom’s ass that killed him in the end.

Women are like spotless new sports cars. Their beauty and pristine glory, their perfect gloss and curves, make them as much a source of worry as a fountainhead for pride and pleasure. There was a special kind of sickness that followed beautiful women around like a cloud and was seeped into the lungs of all the men in her vicinity. That sickness reached men in three distinct ways. Either you had never fucked the girl in question, and had no hope of ever doing so, in which case, thoughts of her naked form haunted the halls of your desires like ghosts on the past battlefields of the civil war. If that wasn’t your particular poison, then maybe you suffered from the even worse variant of it: you had never fucked the girl in question, but it was possible that you might in the future; in which case, you lived the breathless thrill and the horror of a tight-rope walker, terrified to slip and fall in front of the screaming crowd into an abyss without her sitting her fat ass within the halls of your nude and semi-nude repetoire.

The third variant on this sickness was the worst of all. It was what came from actual vaginal contact with the target. In this case, the disease not only infects the lungs and heart, but digs deep within the cozy nether-region of your soul. The poor sufferers of this nightmare exist in a kaleidoscope of horrors, all descending on frayed strings, displaying grotesque hyper-realistic images of the woman in question completely nude in the company of another man, sweating, panting and clutching onto his bed sheets as her ass bounces on top of him.

The mistaken belief in the possibility that those visions were becoming real was what killed your father. A misheard phrase across the room at a party was enough to stir the witch’s brew of your father’s fevered mind. What he spent every waking hour worrying about had now become true, in the funhouse mirror of his soul, and, not even stopping to consider that he heard those fateful words wrong, he jettisoned himself up the stairs and down the street, slamming himself into his metallic coffin and peeling off in order to stop the moment of his worst nightmares slipping into the lucid domain of his waking life. To stop his beautiful wife’s flesh from being touched by the exposed flesh of his most hated coworker.

In actuality, his most hated coworker really was with a woman. A fat one. A fat one that shared none of the charm of your mother except for her beautiful first name. As he fucked this woman from behind and imagined she was your mother, and as your mom sat at her friend’s house talking and occasionally laughing over a steaming hot cup of coffee, your dad swerved into the other lane to pass the minivan in front of him, filled with a family of 5 and capped off with a license plate on its ass that said “speed kills.”

Just as he accelerated and he turned out from behind the car, he seen it. And he knew in that moment that it was too late. He died in that moment bathed in the bright headlights of the oncoming Mack truck, but the last image he seen was the false imprint of the wife he loved so much being had from behind by the man he couldn’t stand.

You and your brother stood in all black, hands held together before you in knowing supplication to the grief of all. The only two men left in the family. The inheritors of the debt your father took on the first time he saw your mom standing across from him at that crowded fair and their eyes met and their worlds collided with a smack that was as satisfying as the sound and visual of her big ass being cupped within his pelvis. Unlike the joys of that act, where going back and forth was the name of the game, they thought their worlds would never part. But now here your mother was, in black, one world unto its lonely and lost self. A soul missing its other half.

And as the service progressed, your mother became more drunk. It was a man’s job to keep other men from steering a vulnerable woman into the claws and salivating teeth of drunkeness, but you and your brother had no interest, and you were the only men your mom had in her corner. The women of your family, including your grandmother, not being men, had no knowledge of the machinations of men, and they had no idea what was coming about as your dad’s coworker, his most hated coworker, handed your mom another gin and tonic and chatted with her just feet from the closed coffin, whose unrecognizable content was the center point for all the day’s grief.

A photo sat in its frame on a little stand by the coffin. Your dad’s expression in the photo didn’t change once, not when his old coworker touched her by her elbow, and not when your mom stumbled over drunkenly and into his searching arms. Your dad couldn’t see what was happening. And the women could see but they couldn’t understand. Only you and your brother and the other men there knew.

And for you and your brother, excitement’s constant vibrations overshadowed any grief you had reserved for that day. The cherry on top of the creamy mountain of possibilities was the thought of all of your dad’s enemy’s plans coming together and him finally taking your mom home, and realizing, just as the moment of glory was to come, just what your mom was hiding under that black garmint. The secret that should have died with your father and grandfather. The secret that was no longer safe with just the two of you left. The secret that scraping at the roof of its coffin for 2 decades to be revealed.

That enormous, glorious, white ass. The cream filling of his already splendid revenge on the coworker he felt a mutual distaste for. Mr. Goody Two-Shoes who was apparently not good enough to let off the gas for whatever reason. Who knows why?

And as the day wore down, and your mom’s sobriety was worn down to a pathetic nub by the combined glasses of gin from the hands of your dad’s male friends and coworkers, your dad’s worst enemy, and you and your brother, you and your brother watched as everyone disappeared, and the hall became empty, only one straggler sticking around, stealing glances at your mom, waiting for his moment. And when he was the last person of any consequence to be there, still ostensibly grieving, he cleverly waited for your blacked out mother to pass out on a couch in the lobby, and you and your brother cleverly made sure to leave her there. Your mom, the bait sitting limp in the water for the fish of glory. The moment itself, a glittering gold lure, sitting there, too good to be true, yet true none the less. It was just a matter of moving her before you two seen. Or so he thought.

You watched from the window as he clumsily rushed her to his car and drove off. You and your bother were impressed when you saw him pull away at a modest speed, a modest speed he kept as he drove down the street. He had apparently, like all wise men, learned the truth of an important proverb from your father’s fatal mistake.

It was a lesson your mom taught you once, as she read it from a little blue book of Aesop’s fables, sitting next to you on a quaint wooden chair as you laid in your bed.

“Slow and steady wins the race,” she said to you and smiled. “Now good night, sweety.”

She closed the book, shut off your lamp and walked over to your open bedroom door in her white underwear. The light from the hallway silhouetted her natural figure, the one obscured outside the domain of this house, only to reveal itself when within those four walls, and within the cozy vicinity of three men.

She stood behind the dividing line between your room and the hallway and bent forward and on one foot to grab the knob of your open door. And just as she grabbed it, she looked up at you with a delicate smile. “Don’t let the bed bugs bite.” She shut the door.

Dueling Fates

You struggled to keep your eyes off your mom’s succulent chest. You hadn’t jerked off for an entire week, just like your brother suggested, and you felt like you were going to blow. Underneath your mom’s pretty face was her even prettier breasts. And underneath those, hiding in their lofty shadow, was her cool, refreshing drink. Just sitting there, teasing you relentlessly.

Your brother’s voice echoed in your mind: “When she’s not looking. Just drop it in. It dissolves like sugar. She’ll never know.”

You wanted to so bad but you just couldn’t. Even without jerking off for a week, which was longer than you’ve ever lasted, and with the constant attention your mom was receiving from every man (which would inevitably lead to a sensation much like dipping your balls in a barrel of feathers), you couldn’t bring yourself to do it.

Even your mom’s delicious, oblivious smile had no effect. But you thought you wanted this for so long. Seeing her ravaged and ragdolled. Lord knew you deserved such a sight, and much more. And lord knew your brother deserved the knowledge that it happened. Your brother had just as much right to the fate of her body as you did. Perhaps more so. Not only because he lived longer, and called her mom for longer, but because also because his will to act on that body superseded your caution to do nothing with it. If he wanted to till these fields, he deserved the land.

And what rich soil your mom had to bestow. You remember when the song “Your Body is a Wonderland” was all over the radio. You felt like it was a song about your mom. You and your brother used to jerk off separately in your own little rooms to the same thought. Namely of your mutual gym teacher taking your mom and putting her to good use. His raging prick milking each ounce of pleasure your mom had to give.

It wasn’t until you saw your mom’s photo posted to the bluvelvet99 discord years later with the words “What do you think of my mom?” written under it that you realized you and your brother were on the same page. You pm’d your brother as if you were a stranger and slowly pushed every so subtly to find out if his passion was as pure as yours. Did he, like you, have that nagging fascination with seeing her drugged and used while unconscious?

When he lit up your week by admitting that he did, you continued to push. “Maybe,” you started, “you should drug her yourself. Like in a bluvelvet story.”

Your jaw hung open when he responded with “I always wanted to.”

“You should” you responded, maybe a little more quickly that you should have. You just wanted to do what you could to spur him on for action.

“I honestly think I might one day. Every time I read a new story I feel more and more like it’s the right thing to do.”

“Well,” you said, “isn’t it?”

“Of course it is,” he said.

The next day, you watched from behind a bush as your brother bought blue velvet from your local drug dealer. You were over the moon with the thought that it was finally happening. Your mom was to be violated. Just like in blu’s stories.

But your brother never pulled the trigger. The reason why was right in front of your face.

“My brother lives with us,” he told you on discord pm.

You felt like an idiot. Of course. What opportunities did he have? You were just down the hall at all times. You never left the house except for work, when everyone else was already gone.

“Maybe your brother wants it to happen to,” you suggested.

“No way,” he said, “my brother is the most straight laced and responsible person I know. He loves our mom and he’s terrified of his own shadow. There’s no way he’d want something like that.”

“Wow, your brother sounds like a real idiot,” you said.

“Yeah. I love him. But just feeling him down the hall from me for the past few weeks, sitting there, as much a reality as the pills in my dresser, he makes me sick. As much a reality as the ass in my mom’s jeans, he bothers me just as much, just in the opposite direction.”

“Why don’t you drug him too. Along with your mom.”

“I don’t know,” was all he said. And then a few moments later, he said “for some reason it just feels wrong. Drugging my mom just fills me with so much warmth. It’s the best thought and feeling I’ve ever felt. Just thinking of her ass makes it so clear to me that it’s the right thing to do. I think it might be the best thing I’ll ever do in my life, if I ever get my chance to do it. But doing it to my brother just feels wrong. I can’t explain it.”

“But shouldn’t it be just as right as doing it to your mom? What’s the difference? I mean an obstacle is an obstacle. If anything, he’s wrong for being in the way.”

“You’re right,” he said. “That’s what I don’t get.”

“Do you think maybe it’s possible that the reason why you feel that way is because he was never an obstacle to you?”

“What do you mean?”

“What if he wants exactly what you want, and deep down you know it.”

“Ha ha. That’s a funny thought.”

“I’m being serious.”

“That seems a bit farfetched.”

“Is it as fafetched as our mom being as perfect as she is? Maybe the same force that shaped her perfect ass is shaping our fates too.” Before he could respond, you typed “*your mom being”

“Sometimes I think that’s the case. Growing up with a hot mom, especially one that everyone is so eager in reminding you of just how hot she is, is enough to scare the atheism out of anyone.”

“Well, to your point. I found this community about 3 years ago,” you said. “I was so happy I did. When I first found it, I literally couldn’t fall asleep that night, even after cumming four times.”

“I was the same way.”

“For the longest time, I wanted to share photos of my own mom here. But I just couldn’t work up the courage. I combed over her photos, saying ‘today will be the day’. But the real day never came. And then one day, out of nowhere, I logged onto discord and what do I see? A picture of my very own mom posted by someone else.”

“Really!?” he responds.

“Yeah,” you said. “It was posted by you.”

It was silent on his end.

A few moments later, there was knock on your bedroom door. You opened it, and when you saw his blushing face, all you did was nod.

And that night was as good as the night you discovered the community. The two of you went from dusk til dawn discussing all your thoughts and feelings and fantasies. You discussed moments and close calls and creepy men you seen leering or catcalling at your mom. Moments of dark lack in resolve and shameful betrayals by omission of action or secret cheerleading now became invitations to unadulterated joy.

Your mom’s perfect ass was in trouble. As big as it was, it had met its match in the collective drive of you and your brother.

Things were about to get delicious.

You had wasted your opportunity on vacation. You knew your brother would be mad. But worse than that, he would be disappointed in you. But if only he were there to begin with, you’d have the strength to do it. The guy sitting next to your mom on the flight back, stared openly at her gorgeous ass as she squeezed past him when coming back from the bathroom. After she resettled her big ass in her cramped airline seat, he admired her bronzed cleavage in the black reflection of his powered down laptop.

He was a perfect pervert. So good for your mom. You don’t know where the courage came from – whether it was the 8th day of not touching your pleading cock or just the airline food – but after your mom had fallen asleep, temporarily removing her from the concerns of waking life, you took the opportunity to pass your aisle-mate a note. You trembled as your hand passed over your mom’s lap and placed the note firmly in his bewildered palms.

“I want you to fuck my mom” was the first thing to meet his unbelieving eyes. And then after a few moments of nonverbal pushing and prodding to see if the other side was serious, you both met inches in front of your mom’s face for some whispered messages. The last part, the most important recipe for this ass stew, was the immortal question. “Would you have any problems doing it if she was passed out?”

A big gamble knowing that society hadn’t progressed much on seeing drugging as a legitimate form of sexual expression. Lucky enough for you and your brother, your mom’s aisle-mate was hip.

“I always wanted to fuck a passed out woman,” he said before turning over and looking at the exposed border of her breasts now lying defenselessly under her face. “Are we going to do this at your house?” he asked without taking his eyes off her beckoning chest.

“Yes,” you said.

“Good. It will be safe for us there. You don’t have a dad or siblings do you?”

“Just a brother,” you explain softly, “but he wants it just as bad as I do.”

“Damn,” he said, now lifting his eyes to meet your mom’s vacant face. “I wish there were more people like you and your brother.”

“There will be,” you said. “There will be.”

You exchange contact information just before your mother can wake up. The guy was supposed to catch another flight, but he was was okay with paying the price of another ticket if it meant living out this waking fantasy.

When you get home, you waste no time. Your brother doesn’t even have time to pull you aside and ask you what happened and why you didn’t respond to his texts. He sees you drop your little blue pill in her water as she unpacks her clothing.

He was going to get to see it. He was strapping in for your mom’s vacation away from her vacation. Her vacation away from all thought and control. Your mom takes a deep gulp of the water. A bit of it dribbles down on her sweating breasts.

You and your brother marvel at the beauty of the blue working through her. It was as graceful as a monologuing actor falling on stage and as magnificent as ballet. You circled her like vultures and when she finally was defeated by the cocktail you both swooped in and tore away all her cover. Her perfect body came into view, which you spanked and slapped and squeezed. Fueled by anger and cum and a healthy number of bluvelvet99 stories. You had to slow down a bit though, after noticing you were about to cum after just barely skimming past the side of her ass with your cock.

When the doorbell rang, you and your brother approached it completely naked and ready. When your brother saw the creep, he moaned audibly.

Your guest was excited to see the two of you naked and hard. It meant that this was really happening. All doubt and apprehension left him in that moment. There was still one missing puzzle piece though. One he had to ensure was there. Please, oh please, let it be there.

And when you brought him into the living room, and saw his prize waiting for him, face-down with that sleeping face he had become familiar with on the plane, he thanked his lucky stars for the glory you were giving him. This was a once in a millennium opportunity and it was happening for him of all people.

If more people thought like you and your brother, it would be a lot less rare, and magic like this could happen all the time. But it takes trailblazers to take the first few steps into the future. This was a great moment in history.

And as you and your brother watched your mom’s rich feminine essence be put to use, you absolutely ravaged your own cocks with the same intensity. Your cocks with shone with the same vibrant hue of each of your mom’s exposed butt cheeks. The essence of your clan had been invaded and its sweetest point reached by someone who, by the conventions of daily society, had no business being there.

But you and your brother had created your own conventions. And for that, you were rewarded with the best orgasms in your entire lives and a great video to share on your favorite discord.

Sweet Dreams (Dream Weaver)

It was nearing the end of the night and your mom was blitzed. On top of that, she had a fat ass. Always did. Making her a target for men of high worth and equal confidence, or men with no worth and overinflated confidence, alike. Alpha males, and pickup artists and her coworkers and creepy hangers-on all lined up at the carnival game, trying to win her and take home the ass attached to her and all the real or imagined tunnels and hallways to pleasure associated with it.

But none had succeeded.

But tonight was different.


Because your mom had never been this wasted before.

And just how did she get so tipsy, on this the night of your prom? She was one of the volunteer parent supervisors, much to your embarrassment, so she should have known better than to let herself get this out of hand. On top of that, your mom wasn’t much to drink anyways.

But, luckily for mankind (emphasis on the “man” part), your mom had been pried open by the machinations of multiple fresh enterprising souls who took it upon themselves to spike the punch with a little bit of various concoctions slipped in through the vehicle of water bottles and flasks stolen from their dads’ liquor cabinets and desk drawers back home.

Your mom was what the cool kids called white girl wasted, just like so many basic individuals before her, including some female classmates this night who stole sips of forbidden liquid in the limited privacy of the hall’s washroom stalls. But your mom was anything but basic. Being afflicted by the negative proclivities of much more simple souls was beneath her.

So what happened exactly? What made this night different?

Well, the explanation was as simple as it was stomach churning. What had happened was a wrench had been thrown into the machinery and the natural order had been all thrown out of wack. This was to be expected whenever young men were involved. Lots of hormones and no real, concrete understanding of consequences, or, at least, the blind confidence that they wouldn’t be caught, or maybe even the lack of callousness to emotional highs making them feel like any risk was worth it. Either way, it all translated to a *blug blug blug* as foreign liquids were spilled into the hidden red embrace of the surface of fruit punch.

And they were caught. Not by the principal. Not by their teachers or the councilor, or any of the other volunteer parent supervisors. Not even your mom. They had been caught by nobody. Nobody but you. Which meant nobody who would stop them.  

When you saw them spike the punch right in front of you, you said nothing. One of the guys, catching your eye, threatened you just to make sure you wouldn’t talk. He didn’t have to. You had no intention of talking. And when you saw your mom’s thirsty face as she took sips of the witches brew not long after, her ass, gorgeous and round in its dress, sitting below like a fact of life, as if it were at all separate from the consequences of what was happening above, you knew you had made the right decision in keeping your trap shut.

Your cock grew nice and hard in your pants and your legs felt like they were about to give out underneath you. Your thighs and calves were wet with hot sweat and your shoes struggled to contain your jittery feet. When all the other adult supervision began drinking from the same tarnished bowl, you could feel soil being poured over the roof of this hall, sealing it all in from the rest of the world. The tyranny of your school hallways, which you faced down from monday to friday every week, the hallways you thought you were finally free from, had now infected and entrenched itself within the four walls of this remote location miles away. The whims of the same young men who put so much fear into your heart for the past 3 to 12 years was now the hand that played all the teachers and staff and parent supervisors like ivory chess pieces, and your mom, your dear mother, being the queen piece, at least in terms of value and use, but the king piece when it came to capability for escape, reliance on others, and focus of this whole entire game to begin with.

You swallowed deeply as your teeth chattered.

You had already known that your mom coming to this thing was a bad idea. But of all the “bad” ways this night could have turned out, the way it was playing out now was the most agreeable to you. In fact, this was the most agreeable night of your life. Your palms tingled as you saw all eyes on your mom’s ass in anticipation, and on her arms, legs, hands, lips and eyes in sober focus and logistical data gathering, looking for signs of promising increases in inebriation so they could chart where she was, where she is now, and where’d she be in an hour, hoping that the rise would be, at the very least, steady, and always forward facing. The ladle always getting good use by her very hand, and the rim of her cup always making contact with her lips. All of these, devilishly good signs.

You looked around at your graduating class. Those clean, square jaws holding grinning lips. You were never going to see any of these faces or bodies again. Not that you ever enjoyed seeing them before this night. But you were just now growing sentimental. Your mom would make for the perfect sendoff present, from you to them. Their sendoff present for all the sneers and wisecracks and each bead of sweat and stray tear they extracted from your forehead and eyes. It was all worth it as a buildup for the erection you had now. No pain, no gain.

You had to take breaks from being out on the disco ball-lit floor (or rather, sitting in the foldout chair at your empty table in the shadows next to it) by ducking into the lobby to use the men’s washroom, the one nobody was using, so that you could celebrate by making cramped but joyous noises with your mouth still closed under the bright fluorescent lights and in front of the mirror. You could clearly make out your own bulge in your black slacks. You adjusted your cock so it sat up straight in the papoose of your tighty-whiteys, then you traced its outline with your finger, feeling every nerve go electric as your little finger (who knew it had such power) brushed past each centimeter of your thankful prick.

Once you composed yourself, you fixed your hair and walked, as if floating on a cloud, back into the dark embrace of the dance hall, the hidden cove where the trap had been placed so sweetly. A nice and delicate booby trap. Every getaway you took to escape from the bathroom, you’d come back, and, almost on cue, you’d see your mom in some state or action or progression of motion which indicated clearly to you that her inebriated state had been elevated. Elbows and jeers followed by interested onlookers. You’ve seen all those faces, and had the misfortune of knowing them like the back of your hand. You had never seen them with this amount of glee. They were being driven wild by the meat being lowered into their zoo exhibit.

Her ass cheeks popped, cupped fondly and suggestively by her dress, conspicuously, and you thought of them as soft, pink camel humps, which instead of being filled with water, were now running over with pure, clear liquor. Either that or it was all punch, the liquor being rerouted up to her brain where it needed to be. In all actuality though, it was neither. Your mom’s ass was as fat and delicious tonight as it was on any other night. It was just that now your mom’s ass was trapped in the sticky web of an 18 year old boy’s fantasy. And every second she spent there was a second she embedded herself deeper into that web. And it was this ignorance and helplessness, and ignorance in her own helplessness, which made her so attractive to you. Her ass a sweet treat just ready to be plucked from its low-hanging branch like a fresh plum glistening with dew.

You wondered how this was going to work. How it ever worked. Would one of them swoop down, now or later, and make his move on her? What was his move? What was involved in bringing a woman home with you? Or getting her to remove her clothing in a crowded environment? Would she need to be more drunk? What series of words had to be said? What magical phrase kicked off these moments, moments you knew happened so often in the world just past the peripheries of your ever-searching sight?

The confusing logistics of these questions didn’t bother you as much as they should have. You had always known yourself to be incompetent in every way, so you assumed, wrongly, that your more quick-witted and socially-skilled peers just knew what you didn’t through some sort of magic you had no understanding of. After all, why would they kick this plan into motion without understanding how to finally pull it off when the time for its final action took place?

What you didn’t account for was that the young mind doesn’t think that far into the future. Ever.

And as the night wore on, and your mom sunk deeper and deeper into her velvet bed of drunkenness, made for her with sheets washed and pillows fluffed by devils, the finishing stroke of this master plan hung suspended over your mom’s ass, waiting to drop and penetrate her. But nobody was there to drop it. It was as if they were more afraid of your mom now, just minutes away from zero hour, than they were of her as that untouchable unicorn on the hill, that golden ass encased behind security glass. They were frozen with indecision along the sidelines.

And you were unaware of all of this, as you sat with bated breath waiting, excited, so excited you forgot to breath or swallow. And that made it all the more alarming when the vice-principal, who, you just realized that up til this very moment, you hadn’t seen him drinking anything except for water from the fountain, approached the crowd of mumbling so-called supervision and grabbed your mom delicately by the crook of her arm and brought her over, directly to you.

“Looks like your mom has been having a bit too much fun. I guess I’m giving you guys a ride home.”

You just looked up at him from your chair. The suddenness of this moment blindsided you. Hard. You looked behind him and your mother to see your peers with wide eyes and the occasional open mouth. “Ummm, I-”

“Okay, let’s go.”

You just sat there.

He looked down at you quizzically. “Look, your mom’s pretty hammered. I know you’re having fun here, but it’s not a good idea to stick around. If I just give her a ride, you won’t have anyone to take you home. Your mom can’t drive in this condition.”

“Uhhmmm. I-”

“Come on.”

“…… uh”

There was a moment of silence. You couldn’t say how long. Likely for a few seconds, closer to 20 than 1. The look on his face was one of concern and discomfort, mixed in with a bit of sternness, rounding it off, and polluting the air with the very same authority you thought the root-like twists and turns of this night had freed you from..

He finally sighed, exasperated. “Okay, listen. I know you don’t think about your mom in these terms, she’s your mother after all, but I’m going to tell you something you need to know for tonight. I’m pretty sure somebody spiked that punch,” he pointed at the near-empty punch bowl, and then he pulled your mom by the crook of her arm lightly for emphasis, “your mom and the teachers and everyone had some and now they’re pretty drunk. Now I don’t know why one of the guys did this, whoever it is, they don’t seem to be thirsty for punch themselves, so my guess is they told you guys not to drink and just wanted to have a laugh watching us grown-ups stumble around and make jackasses of ourselves. My guess is that’s as far as this goes.”

You trembled in your chair as you struggled to keep eye contact with him, looking down at his pristinely polished shoes more often than not.

“But regardless of why they did it, it’s one thing if they get a few laughs at the expense of their teachers and parents before graduating. With all of them,” and he gestured over to them, a rogue’s gallery of different forms of inebriation presented perfectly behind him, “they’re only at risk of losing the barely-had respect of their students, and it’s the last day they’ll ever see them anyways. But with your mom,” he said and sighed, “with your mom, it’s different.”

You felt your arms disappear as you sat smackdab in the reality that he was now implying just what everyone knew about your mom but nobody ever said out loud, least of all you. He waited for your response, and when none came, he continued:

“Okay, listen kid. If we don’t leave, now, your mom’s in danger of leaving here without her dress, underwear and purse and with all of her forgotten memories from this night stored away for her to see later on every phone of every guy in your graduating class. Do you understand now?”

You tremble below him, listening to him spell out the night that almost was, and that still might be according to your most naive heart-of-hearts, which was hanging onto this possibility by a twig hanging over the cliff’s side, rocks and rapids hundreds of feet below with nothing else to latch onto but humid air.

“You still don’t get it, do you? Okay, you ever see J. Lo. Or Kim Kardashian. Or Iggy what’s-her-name? Or how about Jessica Biel? You see them? You like them, don’t you? Or maybe you don’t swing that way, I don’t know. But have you ever seen them in your classmates’ lockers or on the screens of their Iphones? You have, right? Okay, now…” he was struggling to get it out, “that’s your mom. Your mom is just as good as that, but better, because she’s real and here in the flesh. So if we don’t get her out of here soon, they’re going to take out all that frustration from all those hormones – you know what I’m talking about, you have them too – they’ll take them out on your mom. It’s going to get ugly. And, because you can’t fight all of them, you’ll going to just have to sit back and watch it. Because once they build up the courage, they won’t be able to stop themselves. And no one will be able to stop them. Not even me.”

You whimper, almost audibly, finding it unbelievable that it existed just as vividly in his head as it did in yours. The flesh and the sweat and the anger and the smell of booze. The sounds and the energy. And the point of no return. It existed all within his head just as it did within yours. The only difference was that in his version, you had to be dragged away screaming by other boys, mad at you for trying to stop their onslaught on your mom, as is she was owed to them, all waiting their turns, putting their athleticism to good use in the mean time making sure you don’t commit the cardinal sin of ruining their now limitless free-fall called fun, watching gleefully what they’re helping create underneath that disco light, and what they’ll soon be on the ground participating in when its their turn. That was the one variable in his estimation which strayed from yours.

In your version, you stood off to the side, only feet away from the action, half covered in shadow, knowing that this was your last day with any of these people, and in a context where adult authority was no longer a factor, leaving you free to remove your pants in front of everyone, and to do what you normally did so well in the privacy of your bedroom now in front of everyone, letting them see your gorgeous approval for what it was.

But your vision had a broken variable as well: the idea that you were free from all sober adult supervision.

“So! You don’t want to see that happening to your mom now, do you?”

Yes I do. Yes I do. More than anything else in the world. You screamed internally, letting it echo through the caves of your mind. What came out your mouth instead, as quiet as a peep, was “….no.”

“Okay. Get up and let’s go.”

You reluctantly pushed yourself off of your chair, letting it slide off from under you. You took a second, as if stalling mid-motion would give you the time you needed to stop the sudden change in your tides. But, inevitably, you were completely upright, unable to believe that you were. You grabbed your limp-like mother by the other side and began walking with him. Walking towards the dance hall exit, wishing it was miles away. As two and a half of you shuffled out from the hall (your mom half shuffling, half being dragged) and into the hotel lobby, you looked back to see a dozen or more horrified male faces floating there, being lit inconsistently by the light of the disco ball. And as you helped drag your ripe mother down the hallway, you saw two more faces, chuckling as they came out of the lobby washroom, suddenly change from playful mischief to slack-jawed horror as they saw you and the vice principal take your almost-cracked mother past them and away from their tendrils and the tendrils of so many other boys. Squid-like tendrils that were all groping for her impotently as she was chaperoned away from them, violently smashing the picture frames and vases of the lobby, maybe even taking out a light or two or a support beam. But all for nought. She was gone.

The final door was opened and the sobering night air hit the three of you. And though it had no affect on your mother, it sobered you up alright. So much so you could feel the tears welling up behind your eyes thinking about how you’d never see any of them again. This night would never come to be again. And that’s when the first tear escaped.

He heard you: “It’s okay, buddy. You didn’t know. Luckily I was there. Don’t think about what would happen if I wasn’t.”

That’s when the waterworks really gushed forth.

“it’s okay, buddy. It’s okay,”

You both put your mom into the back seat of his blue sedan and you got into the passenger seat. You took one last look at the hotel as he pulled off into the dead air of the night and away from its bright signage. It’s tagline, projected in bright yellow WHERE SWEET DREAMS MEAN GREAT DAYS.

And that’s when the panic struck. It was so close, so fucking close, you thought. So close to happiness. So many things in the right place at the right time. Fate had only lined all your planets up like that just to mock you. You should have known it was just too good to be true. You felt like screaming or headbutting the passenger-side window.

Your mom’s shining guardian angel, your cackling demonic tormentor, looked in the rear view mirror to make sure that she was alright. There she was, nauseatingly clothed and offensively removed from the wild and savage energy of men half her age. Just here in this little cramped automobile, sitting in a bone gray seat with boring ole’ you, and Mr. Responsible vice principal. Never there to stop you from being bullied, but there, right on time on a white steel-plated mare, to give you a hand and rescue you from finally getting something good out of this whole deal. There to drag you kicking and screaming away from your reward for having put up with so much. The friendlessness, the kisslessness, the fear and the nausea and the sweat every time you walked down the hallway from one class to the next. The terror of one of those hands on your shoulder, grabbing you, keeping you from going on on your mousy way. All of this, it would have all been worth it for tonight, only had this idiot either not came, drank punch like a normal person, or decided to leave early. Now it was all for nought. You had nothing to show for 12 years of monotony and fear. Nothing to be prideful or joyful about. Not even an education worth its time in years and teardrops.

While looking back at your mom, biting your bottom lip, you heard a fluttering noise next to you. You looked at the steering wheel to see your vice principal’s hand trembling on it. When he notices you he says “sorry, it’s just that those little shi- excuse me. Those guys make me so angry. What they tried to do to your mom. She volunteered, taking her own valuable time, just to watch you guys and make sure nothing bad happened, and this is how they treat her. They almost ruined your prom night in the process. This is supposed to be the night to leave you with something great to remember. Not the time to scar you forever by dragging you through a living nightmare. It just makes me sick.”

His lack of self-awareness was appalling. Thanks Captain Planet, you thought. Maybe to repay him you should have offered to clean his goody two-shoes in the morning.

You looked up at him disgusted, but you were taken aback for a second when you saw something. It was so subtle and sudden on his face, and gone just as quickly, that you didn’t know if you saw anything at all.

When he pulled up to a street that was familiar to you, you were surprised to see him pull up along the house that he did. He pulled up and over just short of the house you thought he was going to pull up to. You remember your brother telling you about egging the principal and vice-principal’s houses on that gate night all those years ago, and you could have sworn he said he egged 267 and not 266 which is apparently where the vice principal actually lived, if tonight was any indication. I guess your brother had been egging the wrong house all those years.

He put on the brake and shut off the car and said “okay, let’s go.” You got out and back into the sobering night air, and you and him grabbed your mom and dragged her to the stoup. You held her up in your arms as he fished for his keys and unlocked his door and then all three of you spilled into his house.

You both brought your mom over to the living room couch and set her down. You both looked down at her, you marveled at her body and trembled with righteous indignation at the fate set out for it, a fat that it had cruelly escaped exactly at the worst possible time. In contrast, the vice principal stood next to you, with a smile plastered on his face from punchable cheek to punchable cheek, seemingly proud, as far as you could tell, about the beauty he took it upon himself to destroy.

“So,” he said, “are you going to be able to get any sleep tonight?”

You just looked at him, unsure of how to answer.

“I know you’re probably full of adrenaline from what almost happened. If you need any sleep medication I got a lot of it.”

“Umm, no thanks,” you said.

“Okay,” he said, and he pointed down the dark of the hallway, “It’s just the last door on the left.”

“Excuse me?” you inquired.

“Your room. Just the last door on the left. See?”

“Ummm, yeah,” you said. You looked down the hallway, obscured in shadow, with little versions of you, him and your mom being reflected back at you through the mirror at the end of it. You turned around and went to go pick up your mom when suddenly you felt his hand on your wrist.

“No, no. Just leave her here. She’s fine.”

You were taken aback. That and flustered. You had at least resigned yourself in the car to the thought that you’d at least get to peel the dress from your mom’s soft skin and get a good look at what the guys back at the hotel were missing. Look and maybe touch as well. Touch and take pictures of it to post online, your mom’s ass, face and all. Now even that was being robbed from you. But why?

Why was he dictating who sleeps where? If he only dropped you off at your house, he would have no say in what you did. And you lived only two blocks away. Two blocks away, and he knew that. But now you’re here, and he gets to decide who gets which room. He insists upon it. And your mom, the damsel in distress, is now on his couch. Of all the places in the world, his couch. His couch, which he stood over top of now, smiling. With your mom, lying unconscious below him.

He continued to smile. “Good night!” he said.

You had the misfortune of being as familiar with your vice principal’s face as you were the back of your hand, but you had never seen his face with such glee plastered to it before. Like a zoo animal, standing over its meal.

You looked down at what was left of your mom. Fully clothed in gorgeous extravagance. Just a few motions away from being fully nude. It would take no effort at all to get her that way. Just few motions with one’s fingers and some privacy. Your teeth chattered. Your cock twitched. Oh god, you almost let slip out audibly.

“Good night” you said softly, and you turned around and walked down the hallway, step by step, and with each one, you wrapped yourself more securely in the little web you now knew you were caught in. A web weaved underneath you so delicately and sweetly that you never heard or seen it being constructed and didn’t know of its existence until you fell down, clean into its center, where you were now embedded. And though you knew you had been caught, you felt like you were floating, suspended over the ground in the middle of the humid air, safe from gravity and the rocks and rapids below. You turned around for a second, just to see what was behind you, and you saw him there, just standing, looking at you.

“Just a few more steps,” he insisted, “then the door on the left. The last one.” He made an arm motion indicating for you to walk inside. Eager for you to walk inside.

You turned back around and continued, taking one last look before disappearing behind that doorway. He was still standing there, waiting for you to make it into that room, looming gigantically over your peaceful and oblivious mother, who was bathed in his large shadow.”

“Sweet dream!” was the last thing he said to you that night. It was appropriate.

You listened in the dark staring up at the roof as your mom’s clothes were peeled from her body. “ohhh goooodddd” You heard, as delicate and slight as a pin drop, but deliberate as a sand castle on the beach. It didn’t take much imagination to conjure up just what he uncovered which would elicit such a response from him.

If you hadn’t been listening so intently, you never would have heard it. But the same internal force that spurred you on to listen so intently was the same force that caused you to pull out your rock hard cock and whisper your own jubilations into the darkness. Jubilations which he wouldn’t be able to hear over the sound of your mom breathing, or the loudness of her bare ass which demanded the attention of all five senses, even in the dark.

Those little shits,” he whispered, with no one there (no one conscious) to hear him, “put her here right in my lap. this ass. I can’t believe it’s here.”

Neither can I” you whispered to yourself. “Neither can I.”

And when you heard the subtle and sweet sound of kisses, it took you very little imagination to visualize where they were aimed at. And then you heard his belt buckle being played with, it’s sweet jangling, and his pants being dropped clumsily, making a thud in the night. Then the waistband of underwear being jostled passed waist and thighs, calves and feet. Then after a bit of silence you heard his gasp. Even from this distance, you could hear the tremble in his voice as he did. He had done it. He was in.

Just you, him and your mom (sort of). You were the only people who existed that night. Just in an island unto yourselves. A world of sweet sensations and whispers. Two impossible hard cocks and on unbearably soft ass filling one happy, happy pelvis. Filling it as full as could be filled, the cup runneth over in fact. Everything leading up to this moment, chronologically and logistically didn’t and never did exist, and everything that was to come after, would never come. Just those sounds in the night. Your mom’s ass being slapped by his sweating pelvis was the beat that drove the universe. It was a treat licked and swallowed by the darkness. Your mom’s ass gummy and sweet, and his cock tangy and sour. A fine dish for the magic of this night.

You eventually mustered up the courage, and you somehow regained some command of your own body, to open up your door quietly and crawl, ever-so-slowly, now to an unmuffled soundtrack, down the hallway until you were but feet from the driving moment. You could barely make out anything in the dark. Just a rectangular piece of your mom’s ass, cut in two by her butt crack, shining white in the moonlight, rippling back and forth. Even through that tiny window of visibility, it would be obvious to even the most casual observer that your mom’s ass was gargantuan. The piece of visible butt crack told that tale to the pattern seeking male mind through very little.

That and the large satisfying sounds:

*thwap thwap thwap thwap*

As time passed, you couldn’t say how much, you became able to make out your shaking forearm before you, and you could see the outline of the cock you were receiving so much pleasure through up til now. You could now just barely make out your mom’s full form seeming to float in mid-air, as well as the form of the man hunched over her, thrusting back and forth fiendishly. You knew you had to duck out of the way, or soon enough you’d be completely visible, masturbating on the floor there in the sunlight. So you slowly crawled behind the dining room table (you had to feel around for it), which sat on a solid base and you watched as your mom, second by second, become more real to you. And then, finally, you could see her. See her in broad daylight. Day light everywhere, except in the confines of her head.

Her ass, now bare to you for the first time, and what a way to be made bare to you, was completely visible, the focal point of this night and the last, and the focal point of life itself when all was said and done. You always wanted to see it. But you expected its reveal to be sudden and thunderous, instead of creeping up on you as you watched it take form. You wouldn’t have had it any other way though. A barely heard whisper, slowly turned up on a dial underground, made imperceptibly louder with each passing second, until it was nothing but a plain, clearly audible statement in an otherwise silent room. The statement:

Your mom’s ass is being fucked by your vice principal.

So precise and clean. And made all the more simple because it was true. Undeniably true. And undeniably good. It was a fact within the universe you lived in and it would never not be a fact within that universe. It would be as true on mars as it was here. It would be as true on uranus as it was here. It would be as true within the center of the sun or on the dark side of the moon. Your mom had been caught within his web and he was now enjoying her without tired or strained caveat. No irritating filter or ifs, ands or buts. Your mom’s ass was being fucked by your vice principal and that’s all there was to it. It was the fact you would cherish most in life. The fact that all other facts existed for. Your life now had meaning.

And when he was done making you more whole with each pump, he put on his clothes and left, leaving your mom to crawl on the floor, as if trying to find her way out of his web but never making it far.

As you heard his car pull away, you stood up and watched your mom’s gorgeous but pathetically duped ass. Had there ever been a more pitiable creature? But now was not the time for pity. Your mom’s ass was going in circles, in search of an exit that wouldn’t exist until she remembered how to stand on two legs again. The day was far from over for her.

You pulled out your phone and you filmed the comical mess you normally called mom, and then you sent the video to all the worst guys from your graduating class, the ones who put in all the work but had yet to see a single paycheck for their efforts, along with the message “Hey guys! I forgot to give you my parting gift. Come to 266 Bluejay Lane. That’s 266, not 265. It’s BYOB. Make sure to bring enough to keep the festivities going. See you soon!”

While masturbating, you lifted your foot up to your mom’s left cheek and lightly pushed her over with it. Her ass fell to the ground, and it didn’t get up, as if it were stuck.

You smiled down at your mom, ready for what was to come next. It was all in your hands now.

Sunday Morning

“Are you sure you don’t want to go with us?”

A stupid question. But he asked it every weekend, as if your answer would ever be different. As if the sound of a rifle ringing out, and the sight of a dying buck would suddenly no longer be jarring and upsetting to you.

“No,” you said.

“Okay,” said your dad, amicably. “Let’s go,” he says to your brother, and they head out and into the pickup with their camouflage gun sleeves and jackets. As they drive off, you turn around and head back to the kitchen. On the counter is your mom’s famous Sunday Morning cinnamon buns, half of which were scooped off and into a bag by your brother for their hunting trip.

Your mom stood in front of the fridge. You admired her in her pink pyjamas, until she pulled out a milk and spun around. When she saw you standing there, she smiled.

Just you and your mom on a Sunday. Like every Sunday in hunting season.

It was so warm and cozy, toasty as they sometimes say, inside your house. You had no idea how your dad and brother could leave it and go out into the fall chill and morning frost. Your mom, snug in her pajamas, her big, warm ass and her slippers, not to mention her frost-melting smile, it was just so comforting. Just the amount of comfort you needed from a week full of a slings and arrows, customers coming at you like they planned it all together in some small room, an avant-garde ambush, hitting you and separate times of the day, only occasionally overlapping, stressing your introverted mind with questions, requests and demands, most of which you caved to, afraid of conflict and discomfort of any kind.

But being here with your mom, and your mom alone, every Sunday made it bearable, at least enough that you could go back every Monday and keep your chin up for just a bit longer.

Your mom’s pink pajamas, which cupped her large butt cheeks faithfully, were a Sunday staple. The image that wrapped up the spirit of the day into a tight bow. You grew up with that ass, day in and day out, and it was the part of your mom that filled you with the most nostalgia, though you could never tell her that. You remember it most fondly from when you were in the age-range where it would float passed your head regularly, just missing it by inches. Even back then, you wanted to see what it looked like without its coverings. But you never got a chance.

And even now, in your early twenties, it was the part of your mom you felt the most warmth towards.

Your mom smiled at you and poured milk into her Sunday morning tea. You held your hand behind your back as you watched her sip it. After her first sip, she at looked at you and said “enjoy being young. At my age, tea seems to make me sleepier instead of waking me up.” She snorted, then took another sip.

You just smiled back at her, a smile cozy enough to meet a tenth of her ass’ potential.

After she was done her tea, she put the mug down on the coffee table, and she yawned. She laid down on her back, staring up at the ceiling, blemished with many individual rays of soft light through the slats in the blinds. The day was soft and fluffy, but much like your cozy smile, your mom’s ass had all the coziness of the day wrapped up into one single point in space and time and multiplied within it. Each cheek a world of lush coziness.

The blue velvet was working. You’ve heard stories of tolerance building, but you had yet to see a  manifestation of it in your mom yet. Falls season after fall season, the effect was always the same, in strength and duration, and even the predictability of its onset.

You pulled out your phone and began texting.

Your mom looked at you, quizicly through the double-cloudy haze of the sleepiness of the day combined with the fuzzy onset of the blue in her system. “Who are you texting?” she asked, with her forearm on her forehead.

“Just my friend from work,” you said as you kept your thumb going toward its purpose.

 “A friend?” she said, dreamily, her voice devoid of solid form, “Oh, is he coming by… today?”

You smirked as you looked down at your phone and hit send. “Yes he is, mom.”

“Oh,” she said. Her eyes were closed now. “It’ll…. it’ll be nice to meet him.”

You laughed to yourself. “You guys have already met.”

Your mom didn’t reply, she just sat there like a soft statue, her feminine forearm on her inert head.

You continued: “You’re more familiar with him than you’ll ever know.”

There was a knock at your door.

You walked over through the silent living room, the rays of light dancing on you, as you were the only thing in motion in the entire house, everything else inanimate, waiting to be acted upon. Defenseless.

You opened the door and let the young man in. He took off his coat. “Sorry I’m a bit late. My ex came by to pick up her stuff and she tried to scream my ear off.”

“No,” you said, “you’re right on time.”

“I’m a little pissed off,” he said, as he hung his coat on your rack where your brother’s usually hung. “Good thing she came today. At least I’ll get some stress relief after the whole thing.”

He walked into your living room, right to the usual spot. He stood there, looking down at your mom as he removed his pants. The feeling of deja vu never got old. Every Sunday, every weekend, for every week in buck season, for the last 4 years. The feeling was the same. The funny feeling like he had never left, or like this had never happened before, but in a barely-remembered dream you burst out from the cloud of this morning.

He, pantsless now, as he was on every day at this point, approached your mom and flipped her over, leaving her pink, soft ass up in the air. And when he removed it from its bunny-like prison, it was as if you had seen it for the first time again. It was as if you hadn’t seen it nude like this dozens of times before. It was as magical this time as you thought it would be to see it all those years ago, more than 4, when you couldn’t see it at all.

And he gave it that ole’ familiar smack, that bottle against the hull of the ship, sealing the flavor of its fate for the next few hours.

Your removed your pants and sat on the opposing couch, the softest place in the house, next to… well, you know. You sunk into it like a bed of cotton candy.

Your pantsless coworker, who earlier this week referred to your mom as Jenine (it took you a full minute to realize who he was talking about), positioned himself with the third most comfy place in your house beneath his naked backside, and he grabbed the first most comfy point of comfort and he lowered it over his dick, and let it slide down until… yep, he was all the way in.

And even that, seeing 7 or 8 inches of the insides of your mom being filled by such matter-of-fact sturdyness, felt like the first time. It was a hard truth, manifesting its solid and rigid self within your mom’s person, getting in deep in a way that would be felt but never remembered.

You and your brother were always such opposites, conspicuously so. And while he enjoyed spending his Sunday in a pickup truck with the heater barely working, next to your dad, amidst the smells of used shell casings, cigarette smoke, and black coffee, you enjoyed being here, home, sitting near your mom, with your lower back on a throw pillow, with the smells of tea, fresh cinnamon buns, and cotton  Slippers over boots.

And while your brother sat in a world of a constantly purring engine and the occasional sonic boom of gunshot blasts, you sat in an equally familiar world of the soft tap-tap-tap of your mom’s big and inviting ass over the flesh of your coworker.

The perfect way to spend your Sunday morning.

Apologies to those who sent me private messages

Hi guys. I just want to make this post to apologize to those who have sent me private messages in the last 5 months or so.

I’ve only just realized that I was receiving those messages today, and I see I have quite a few. I’ll try to get back to everybody, unless the message is derivative or asking of me things I can’t do (like change the format of my stories. Suggestions are always welcome though as long as they’re not too demanding).

Sorry for that guys. I really do appreciate your input, and I’m already flattered by some of these messages, and the work you guys put into them, just as I’m skimming them over now. I can’t wait to read through them all.