Your mom’s body at the beach was quite the spectacle to behold. Everyone there thought so. All the guys there did anyway. And as they pinched themselves, a mic check to see if they were dreaming, you did the same, watching them intently as they her, feeling lucky to be alive.
But as lucky as you felt, you knew you’d never trust true joy, not while your mom was happily married to your father, making her hot, white body something that was off limits to the large majority of the mass of male flesh on this planet. You hated monogamy for that. And for its false modesty and totalitarian limiting nature. You wanted to live in a world of freedom, but the world couldn’t be free until your mom’s body was free.
It annoyed you how selective women were with who they gave their bodies too. Not only did they not give access to their most private areas enough, but out of the men they give access too, they seemed to be designed to pick exactly the wrong kind of man. Honest, hard-working, brave, confident, competent, kind, and funny. What was wrong with lecherous, shiftless, cowardly, arrogant, mean and cruel men? I mean, besides everything.
But all those traits were the traits needed to make them fucking your mom the cat’s pajamas. This is why you loved alcohol so much. Or at least the idea of alcohol. It was the state-approved drug that all of humanity seemed to agree was okay, and it was the chemical of choice for men in their trials and tribulations to get inside female body, It was the one cheat code not frowned upon in this game called life. The one way that was deemed acceptable to bypass a woman’s stubborn guard with.
It was almost as if mankind went through a list of ways to chemically alter a woman so she’d act in a way that was more agreeable to male sensibilities and dreams, scratching each one out disapprovingly with a bright red pen, and coming to liquor at the bottom of the list, and not being able to lower the red pen’s tip to the page. Just staring at it, petrified with indecision. And then removing themselves from their desk, the chair scraping as it slides across the floor, putting on their coats and hats and walking out that front door, leaving liquor the only method unscathed by the spirit of the beehive of mankind.
So that was your one chance and choice. But you had one further problem, one that stood at the crossroads of your ultimate decision like a cruel joke, a scarecrow of sorts, looking down at you and your lack of fulfillment, which was bathed in its cool shadow, hungry for sunlight on its flesh. That problem was that your mom didn’t drink. Almost never.
So if society was going to screw you like this, leaving its only loophole for perfection caulked shut, you felt like you were in the right to consider the alternatives. But drugging your mom was just so barbaric. It wasn’t that you thought it was wrong, you were smart enough to know that it wasn’t, but it was the type of cheat code that removes all fun from the game. Alcohol was the code for 99 lives. Blue Velvet in her tea was the code for invincibility. One of those codes gave you a fair shot in a difficulty level that was anything but fair, the other one gave you a win without asking for anything in return.
So drugging was out of the question. You were better than that. Not morally, because if anything drugging your own mom for another man’s benefit was the most moral thing you could do, but more like: you were too skilled to lower yourself to something so easy. You weren’t good at much in your life, but subterfuge and sneaky-ness was one of your few virtues and you intended to use it for one grand purpose while you were still alive to be able to.
So what alternative did you have left. Well, your birthday was approaching, and lucky for you, your dad would be out of town and unable to celebrate it with the two of you. Luckily you had no friends either, so they couldn’t stand in your way. And what you were going to do, which was delightfully delicious in my own opinion, was you were going to use your mom’s sensitivity towards your own mental state to guilt her into drinking like a fish.
Your mom was not only sensitive towards you and your emotions, but she was also a pushover, generally speaking. This was something you were well aware of since you were five, but something that even back then you knew better to take advantage of. Your dad was the same way. You only really got to see your mom’s severe fear of being disliked in her interactions with strangers. With other motorists on the road, or with rude checkout clerks, or catcalling cement workers, your mom reacted like a ghost, floating through the streets and exits and off-ramps and hopefully away from that point of conflict. If away wasn’t a way she could retreat, then she’d do what she was told, which, because of the civility of modern society, was rarely asking as much from her as you were going to ask on your birthday.
When your mom sat opposite you, the hot glow of the 21 birthday candles replaying themselves instantaneously in her big blue eyes, you relished her beauty. When she got you to make a wish, you made like you were thinking deeply about what that wish was, then you blew out the candles, extinguishing them in your mom’s eyes as well.
“So, what did you wish for?”
You looked up at your mom and smiled, “I wished for us to have a good time drinking for my 21st birthday.”
She had a look on her face. Not like shock. More like something lamb-like.
You continued. “I always wanted to know what it feels like to get a good buzz, especially with someone I love and who I care about.” You looked down at the smoke dancing off your candles. “And someone who cares about me.”
You looked back up at her and she smiled.
You got her to bring out some brandy and you both had shots. She had a harder time downing them than you did. You had actually had alcohol before from your dad’s liquor cabinet, which you watered down to refill what was missing in any bottle you put your lips to. It had been months since you last took a sip of anything, and you’d never been drunk-drunk, but you had drank enough to build a tolerance to the rough edges of imbibing. Luckily, your mom hadn’t.
Your mom was so cute. Especially after 4 shots. She had an elegance to the way she stumbled, like she waltzed off of a deleted scene from Westside Story, one that took place in a particularly rowdy bar.
You suggested that the two of you head to the beach. Your mom didn’t seem sure about it, but you said “the beach is where I feel the happiest. And I want to feel the happiest today if I can at all help it.” And your mom’s look of worry never left her face, but a look worth a million words commingled with it. The look of mothers as they look at the faces of their beloved sons. She went to her room to change into her bathing suit. You passed by her room to yours and you took a sneak peek as she pulled her bottoms over her bare, white ass with just the perfect amount of clumsiness to drive you wild.
You pulled your swim trunks over your stubborn erection, and then you stumbled out of your room in a delightful blur just as your mom stumbled out of hers in a blur that was significantly less delightful. She looked scrumptious in her suit. You pushed her along in the kitchen, and then suggested one more shot.
She took it and smiled, trying to hide her distaste for it out of a need to not see you uncomfortable, even for a second. This was your day, and she didn’t want you to have one single worry on your mind.
So you decided to suggest another shot just as her face went back to normal.
There is nothing more beloved in this world to a man than a drunk woman, especially if she’s alone. The only sight that compares is a child as seen by his mom. The sun on your shoulders, and glowing all over your mom, made the moment feel real. It was funny, because that was just what it was, but nothing felt very real to you anyways, at least not on a day by day basis.
But your mom’s bare feet, drunkingly stumbling over hot cement felt real. You crossed the street when your moment came and you could feel the sand on your mom’s feet before yours got there.
Your mom had already had the attention of every male, and some females, on that beach, but when she drifted off awkwardly to the right, while clearly not intending to, those eyes were now glued to her. And when she tripped and stumbled into the sand, you had never seen so many eyes go wide all at once. It was like being in a hotseat in hell and looking out at legions of red, demonic faces, all with their eyes on your mom, pitchforks ready to poke her as some symbolism for something unending in purity, even purity itself.
You looked over and saw a group of guys standing around, by a picnic bench, not so subtly sipping on what they wanted the world to think was just water. You stumbled over to them after grabbing your mom’s hand. There were 3 men and 2 girls. The girls were attractive, and the men, in a way, were even more so. The 3 men smiled as you got closer, though 2 of them tried to hide it.
You asked if you could have a drink. You were shocked by your candour, but the heat of embarrassment, a heat you were used to, was a distant third from the heat of your alcohol buzz and the heat from the sun on your face.
“It’s just water.”
The other guy, the one not sitting next to any girl said “No, it’s not,” and he looked over at his friend as if silently assessing his stupidity. “Here.” He handed you the water bottle.
“What is it?” you asked.
“Mom, do you want some vodka?” You looked over at her. She said no with her eyes, but yes with her mouth. You weren’t the only one to notice this juxtaposition.
You asked for 2 plastic shot glasses. You poured a full shot for your mom, and then you poured almost nothing in your own glass. All 5 of them noticed. Only your mom didn’t. The two cups made a dull clink as you said cheers and you lifted your shot to your face, getting only a drop of vodka, while your mom downed hers and playacted again like it was fine.
This behavior, if you hadn’t had already called this mysterious beauty mom just now, would have made all the sense in the world to those 5 sitting there, especially the men. But given who this woman was to you, they couldn’t make heads or tails of it. Either way, at least 3 of them weren’t complaining. And one of them was especially okay with it. The one who was single, or at least, hadn’t come with his girlfriend. He wanted to pump even more of that plastic bottle inside your mom. If he tried, you would have helped him, but you decided to play it cool.
You walked your mom around the table, asking if she was alright. She gathered her bearings for enough time to say “yeah” with a lazy drawl, and you sat her down next to the odd man out. You then sat down beside her, and scooted her in more, even after getting more than enough room to sit down with for yourself.
You didn’t even look over at the guy to catch his approval at the bottom half of your mom’s body right next to his. You looked across the table and said “it’s my birthday.”
“Well, happy birthday,” the less attractive of the two girls said.
You looked over at the guy sitting with your mom. “She had 6 drinks today.” And before any of them could say anything. “7! She had 7 today. In the last hour.”
“Oh nice,” he said, sounding intrigued, while at the same time at a loss for what else to say.
“I just turned 21 today so I don’t know. Is she blackout?”
“Blackout drunk?” one of the girls asked.
“Yeah. Will she remember tomorrow. I mean, today?”
One of the guys tried to look her in her eyes. “I doubt it. I doubt she even knows what’s going on now. 7 isn’t that much though.”
“Yeah…” you said, pausing to gather your thoughts and recall the common term for somebody like your mom in regards to her booze intake. “… but she’s a lightweight. I don’t think she ever drank more than a taste. Do you think she’s good?”
“Good?” the guy next to her asked from outside our field of vision.
“What do you mean good? Good at drinking?”
You thought about it for a second. “No… good at…. bad at drinking?” you asked and then began laughing. They just stared at you. “Do you think she’s wasted? Or zooted? Or…” you had one second of doubt. But you forced it out anyways. “Good for the picking?”
All the eyes at that table, except for your mom’s, were fixed on your red bloated face. All of a sudden, from beside your mom: “And who’s doing the picking, exactly?”
You smiled and pointed your arms in the direction of your house across the street, though they had no way of knowing that that was what you were trying to accomplish with that gesture. “The picking? Heh. It’s an open invitation.”
A sense of wonder broke out on the two male faces you could see, while the female faces next to theirs showed something quite different. They both looked at the men sitting next to them, most definitely their boyfriends. And their boyfriends at feeling those familiar eyes on them, shrunk in a way that was not only unattractive to you aesthetically, but unattractive to your cause. A part of your almost died with them.
Then you heard the voice to your right. “You guys think I should pick it?”
You saw a hand land on your mom’s thigh in your peripheral vision. The men looked at their friend and nodded, almost as if they wished to live vicariously through him. And their girlfriends also nodded at him. They had no idea what freakshow they had stumbled into by coming here this morning, but they intended to reap it for all the wild stories it could give.
The less attractive of the two girls, and the third most attractive woman at that table looked at you and asked, “that’s your mom? Did I hear you right?”
You nodded before she even finished.
“Wow. What do you get out of this?” she asked, tilting her head to the side. Her eyes wide.
“I get out of this… I get to see her… get taken.” you looked down at the big male hand all over her thighs. “My dad’s out of town today on bus… business. And she never drinks, but I got her to today for my birthday. Just this once. This is my chance to see her get taken.” You panted audibly and suddenly.
One girl looked at you for a second longer, then at your mom, then at her single friend across the table, “Lucky you.” she said.
“Lucky me,” he said, pinching the side of your mom’s butt.
“If only me and Sheryl weren’t here,” the more attractive of the two girls said, “then you’d get to watching her be ‘taken’ in a 3 way.” She said that with disgust, all of which was aimed at her boyfriend. She was too blown away by the strangeness of you and what you were saying, and trying to see, to be disgusted by you. Wonder left no room for disgust. Besides, what was there to be disgusted about? You weren’t doing anything wrong. It was liquor, not drugs, inside your mom. For all these two cared, you had pulled a sly fast one, fair and square.
And now one of their friend was going to get laid out of it. Nobody lost, except for maybe their boyfriends, who god attached them to so they could keep them losing out on moments like this, just like god attached your dad to your mom. Unlike those two guys, you were lucky that your mom’s ball and chain wasn’t here to spoil your fun. And she was the only other person losing out here, as far as they were concerned, and they had no reason to care. Especially when it was your mom who was being offered up on the pyre as a sacrifice on the altar of them having a good story to tell.
Your mom was nothing to them but potentially a story about that time their male friend fucked a middle-aged woman after her son got her drunk and offered her to him. They knew nothing about your mom’s personality, and didn’t want to know. It would only make it feel weird.
You looked over at the guy, his eyes down at your mom’s lower half. “Are you coming?” you asked him. He looked up. You continued. “I live over there.” You pointed to your house.
“I’m more than ready,” he said without looking away from your mom’s thighs.
You picked your mom up, and helped her over the bench seat. The man came up close behind, his hands all over her. You pushed them both ahead of you to admire them, and you looked back at the table. The 4 faces squinted in the sun, but the fascination was still there.
The entire beach was full of squinting faces, or, if not, faces clad with sunglasses, all very much aware that the drunk lady they were looking at and admiring was going to get it. Whether she knew she was going to get it, and whether she’d want it if she knew, wasn’t their concern. She was drunk fair and square and they weren’t about to step in and ruin another man’s fun. Especially with a specimen as beautiful as that. Even the women on the beach, from 18 to 60, jealous of your mom’s beauty, enjoyed the underdog story of this young man getting his dick wet in your mom’s angelic body by accident of her inebriation.
You heard a smack behind your head, and you turned back. Even through the blur of your head turning quickly, you could see the residual ripples in your mom’s ass.
You fumbled with the keys as you opened the door, and then you pushed it open, and stepped into the coolness of your place. You looked back at the two lovebirds, still in the sun, and you ushered them in to your shade. Being out there in the heat for so long, becoming numb to it, the cool made things feel real again. You trembled at the situation you were in, as if it just hit you what was happening.
He undid your mom’s bikini bottoms and let it fall to the ground, exposing her big, perfect ass. You had seen it once today, for only a split second though a crack in the door, but seeing now like this, in plain view, with a strange man in the house, had you free-falling in your stomach.
Her feet kicked sand around the carpet as he pulled down her left bra cup and began licking her nipple. You could see his cock was big through his trunks as it twitched with pleasure. “Please don’t wear a condom” you said.
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
He kneeded your mom’s ass like dough as he kissed her and licked the side of her face, from her chin all the way up to her hairline. He pulled down his trunks, and his erection popped out and hit her in the hips. He grabbed her hand and placed it over his cock, starting her off in a jerking motion, hoping she’d get the memo.
She did. For a few seconds, then she lost track of what she was doing and her hand became still. It was beautiful while it lasted though, and it had you removing your trunks so you could get at your raging hard dick with your own hand.
He then pushed her, until her knees were on the sandy carpet, and he put his cock into her mouth. You gasped and panted at it. This beautiful young dick, probably as old as yours, give or take, was deep inside your mom’s mouth. His balls fit so nicely against the curve of her chin. Then he pulled back, and went in again, then back and in again. He did this for a bit, and then he pulled his cock out and held it up and said “lick my balls” in just a whisper and he pressed his testicles against your mom’s mouth. She did her best she could in her condition, which as far as you could tell, was really good.
Then he lifted her back up onto her bare feet, and he started kissing her again. She sort of kissed back. Sort of. She had no idea what was going on. He pulled her backwards towards him and let her fall down with him on the couch. Her ass jiggled as she landed in his pelvic region. He lifted her up slightly and positioned her over his cock. You jacked off as you watched, anticipating what was to come next. And slowly, your mom’s pussy ate the head of his irritated cock, and then slowly slid down the shaft until all of it disappeared inside her.
A picture of you, your dad and mom sat on the mantle above their heads, reflected the scene and shook a little as he pounded into her.
You all smiled in the family portrait as the transparent image of your mom’s naked form being fucked in real time overlayed it all in the glass of the picture frame.
You tugged at the little friend who spurred you on. He was now eager for your attention, and you rewarded him as you watched the situation he helped you in creating. “Fuck my mommy,” you said, drunkenly. “Feel her pussy and enjoy it.” The joy you felt was so overwhelming, you vaguely remember to this day thinking that you were doing something illegal in that moment. After all, how could so much fun and beauty be allowed. Yet, not one law had been broken. Everything was legal and by the book. On top of that though, it was all just so moral. You couldn’t believe that watching your mom’s drunk ass being fucked by a stranger could give you so much unmitigated joy, while at the same time making you into such a morally righteous and complex figure. But here you were, a testament to the fact that it was true.
When he was about to finish, you had him cum on your mom’s face because it was the perfect amount of disrespect to cap off the day, and when he was in the middle of doing that, you started to feel yourself cumming, so you hovered your cock over your mom’s upturned ass and let loose, spilling your nice, hot, white seed all over her cheeks and butt crack.
He went to go put on his clothes so he could leave, but you drunkenly convinced him to stay, recommending he sleep with your mom in his arms, and even use her again when he felt up to it. He conceded.
You came out of your room an hour later to see them, shut-eye in each other’s arms. He looked like your new dad, though he was likely younger than you were. They looked so innocent in each other’s arms, and they were, nobody had done anything wrong on this day. Everyone did the right thing. It was a perfect day.
You came on your mom’s ass a second time then went back to sleep.
You woke up early next morning and you looked out the window. You saw it coming down the lane. Your dad’s black Mercedes.
You felt bad lying to the guy, but you knew he wouldn’t have stayed if he knew your dad would be back this morning. You did what you had to do. It was no big deal. Your dad wouldn’t hurt a fly.
He’d come inside and see his naked wife, coated with multiple loads on the two most cherished parts of her body, according to him and most others, and he’d see the scraps of clothing on the floor, possibly noticing yours among them, and the open bottle of liquor he got for a gift from his boss sitting on the coffee table.
He would smell the liquor in the air, mingling with the sweat and sex and he’d see your open door in the hallway, and maybe even see you in your bed, with your eyes shut, play-sleeping, trying not to smile as he looks in at you, as you lie pantsless over the covers with your hard dick.
And he’d wander back out into the living room, where his wife and that random stranger his son’s age sat tightly naked together as a monument to him being beaten by the one substance that no one would ever do anything about. The substance that filled the air in cruel mockery of him and everything he held dear.
And then he’d know he was beaten.
Fair and square.