The Golden Scale

Your jaw hung wide-open when you saw how he was treating your class. Like he was your friend, like you were all one happy coalition, 27 students and 1 teacher all on the same star-ship to the same anomaly in space, rather than the dark captain of your crumbling pirate-ship who made your classmates walk the plank regularly for their insubordination or inability to put up with his mental illness which was masked as a form of velvet-gloved sanity, which is what the usual class-dynamic was.

What was the cause of this Damascus-like change in his black heart? (A heart as a black as the tinted-windowed sedan he drove to work every day) It was simple. An easy to prepare, yet hard to require the ingredience for, recipe of two large, white breasts, one nice big white ass, two big, blue eyes, one big smile and a voice like honey that dripped over the thirsty, swollen penis of any man with vaguely heterosexual proclivities.

Check, check, check, check, check.

The need to impress this lovely thing was the carrot on the stick guiding him to the watering hole of decent human behavior. At least for the current week, though your classmates had their fingers crossed behind their chairs that this blue oasis of goodwill would multiply itself into a blue ocean and last until the end of the school year.

If this were only a story about you trying to overcome the meanness of your grade-school teacher, it would end here. But you know that it isn’t. The heavy pit in your stomach as you read this and the gorgeous tingle in your balls and thighs are going nowhere.

Because this fine dish, scrumptious enough to tame the cyclops of your teacher’s inner-self, was no siren on the rocks, or medusa in her tower. She was none other than your own mom.

It was your mom’s golden body, voice, and mannerism, her whole more-feminine-than-feminine aura, that kept the evil at bay. The mouth-watering sacrifice to please the barely-describable child-eating god.

He was a new man under the yellow of this new light. There would be no calling on you to read and laughing at you when you stuttered and blushed your way through it. There would be no flicking your ear as you apprehensively passed him to leave class, catching you just when you thought you were scott-free. There would be no sly comments about your effeminate nature. About how your fatherlessness made you into some sort of a half-man.

It was clear that if he only knew your mom sooner, and was able to joke around with her as he was doing right in this moment, as you and your classmates did your projects in groups with glue and paper, he would have been much kinder to you from the jump. Not all of you, just you. The one he wanted something from. But now that your mom was here, in his stomping ground, the place he argued with the principal that she should never come (changing his tune immediately after meeting her, as all men do), he was now forced to be kind to his entire thunder-rattled flock. She was the observer, and you all were his Schrodinger’s kids.

This was as tall an order for him as they came, but your mom’s ass was a miracle worker. A mover of mountains. How God could put such perfection within some shapes and not others was beyond you, maybe because it was the contrast that made things all what they were, and your mom’s shape was at odds with everything around it for miles at all times. A cost-less pleasure to admire, if you were one of the lucky few to be in her proximity to admire it, but a costly pleasure to take for yourself, as your teacher was now learning. The soft fascism of her ass was as cruel to him as his fascism to your class, though he would never pick up on it, lacking in the humanistic trinity of empathy, logic and imagination as he was.

And the same beads of cold sweat on your hot forehead now transferred themselves to his. For you, it was reading to the class from in front of the ghost-like chalkboard, a daunting task under any context, but made worse by his Scythian arrows that he lobbed at you with each ‘th-th-the d-dog went t-t-to” stutter. For him, the sweat was from him trying to maneuver himself through the obstacles of your mom’s desire, a daunting enough task in any context, but made worse by the knowledge that he did this all in front of a group of enemies that he created. And you were the biggest obstacle of all. The one who could plunge his hopes into the ocean with just one dinner-table conversation with the target in his sights. One word to this juicy fruit, and poof, she was up in the air like smoke, or even liable to scorch him like fire, if the underside of her rock was as multifaceted as he presumed. If her temper, though often sheathed, were half as ferocious as her ass, it could mean his very job itself going up in the air like smoke with her and his chances with her up in smoke with them both.

And to make it all worse, any inch he made towards making her available to him was another inch towards pushing you to telling your mom, an act that would rip him from his high hopes like a storm sucking him out the window of a high-riser. He knew you didn’t want to. He knew how awkward the conversation would be for you, how it would be an extension of the fear you had about reading aloud in front of the class, a fear of all things awkward or revelatory about your lack of manhood. But he didn’t know how far he could push you, and string your emotions along for the ride, laying sticky paper for your mom to casually find herself stuck to, doing this all in front of you, having nowhere else to do it, before you sent his quest for your mom’s golden, whimpering nakedness crashing to the dirt the way he wanted her crashing (eager to see the redbrown dust on her bare-ass), along with his cushy job with its unchecked power over the most vulnerable people in society and his summers off.

And, this house of cards he had placed so carefully would have been made a game of 52 pickup within seconds of you noticing his eyes go wide seeing your mom step into the prize-fighting octagon of his classroom were it not for one thing.

Peer-pressure.

“Dude, don’t say anything. I handed in the report yesterday, a whole week late, and he just smiled and said ‘Good job’. He would have had me doing pushups in of the class a week ago and he’d made fun of my belly that I only have because I sit inside all day trying to finish his stacks of homework. Please, just let him hit on your mom. He won’t get her, I promise you.”

“Yeah, she knows he’s a loser, trust us. She’s obviously just being nice. But don’t let him know. Don’t tell your mom about what he does to us or else it’s all over. He’ll make our lives into a living hell.”

“B-but,” you protested, “what if my mom tells the principal and they fire him, or at least make him be better to us?”

“No, that’s a risk I don’t want to take. What if they don’t fire him? What if he gets in trouble and it only makes him worse? Especially after you took your mom away from him. He’ll be the worst to you out of everybody. Are you going to risk that?”

Your head was spinning, and you could feel the tears well up in your eyes as you thought about your mom’s ass in that class, being pimped out for decent human treatment from a ‘responsible adult’, something that you should have been guaranteed anyways. And while you didn’t want to risk the remainder of the year on the bet that he’ll be fired or behave better after being humiliated by you, you also didn’t want to risk him actually pulling the impossible off, and making your mom’s naked goodness his. You had a habit of always imagining the men you hated most naked with your mom, enjoying the heaven of her body, just a sick sado-masochism of your mind to torture yourself for an impulse you didn’t understand, a ride in your teacher’s night-black sedan into the abyss of your own mind, but you never thought you would have to weigh and count the possibility of it actually happening against the possibility of being destroyed by stopping it from coming to cruel fruition. A golden scale with your mom’s ass on one side, and yours on the other. If you got the balance just right, neither your ass or your mom’s would be pounded into oblivion. Not yours by boot, nor hers by pelvis.

“I guarantee it to you man, he’s not going to get her. She’s just being nice. Your mom is like that. You know. Please, don’t ruin this. He might be nice to us forever because he knows you’ll tell your mom if he isn’t. It’s not like he’s going to give up on her after her volunteer week’s done.”

You heard an annoyed sigh beside you and you turned to look to see another classmate stepping in “how about you don’t tell her anything or I’ll break your fricken arm? How ‘bout that? We’re not asking you. We’re telling you. Your mom isn’t going to hear crap about this. Okay?”

You were visibly shaking. Mouth dry, with your limbs rattling beside you. So much so that faking bravery was a losing proposition. “O-o-okay. I w-w-won’t tell her.”

“Good,” he said, and he patted you on the head condescendingly.

“Your mom will be fine,” the other guy said. “Trust me.”

Maybe it was the threat of a beating from the biggest kid in your class, but you now trusted him. It at least put you at a bare-minimum of ease, enough to keep you from turning inside out in your seat in front of the whole class.

That night, and every night after it, you kept silent at the dinner table. When your mom would ask you a question about your class, your classmates, or your teacher, you even oversold how peachy everything was, in fear that little glimpses of your dissatisfaction would peek through the smokescreen of your lukewarm lies. No, no. Your teacher was wonderful. Your classmates loved him, and you were learning a lot in that class and were becoming more confident in yourself with each passing day, thanks to that wonderful man guiding that ship. That’s what your mom left the table believing, at least you hoped. And the next day in class, you had good reason to believe that your hopes were realized.

And your insides died more and more with each day, watching your mom’s ass being left out to dry, a fair-haired beauty in-of-itself, chained to a stone of your mother, awaiting the cinematic introduction of a 20-foot high ape, just so you and your classmates could breathe easy like the kids in every other class did. Your classmates were now able to do so, lucky enough for them and thanks to you. You, on the opposing hand, had never been more stressed out. The sweetness in your mom’s voice each class only made it harder on you, a drill to your soul, an acid leaking into the dark crevices of your mind, burning each sensitive nook instead of honey delighting the suction cups of a hungry palette.

But then it was all over, the week had passed, and your mom’s time volunteering with your class had passed with it. And the stress and the acid in your stomach was gone with it. And what’s more, the one thing that never left, the leftover, the ghost of your mom’s ass, was the spirit of that week, calm and kind and understanding. Your teacher continued to treat you and your classmates like human beings, as if working to the tones and timbre of your mom’s honey voice. As if each word bounced of the feathery softness of her hapless behind before reaching your ears, which had been accustomed to so much verbal carnage. That verbal carnage was now so rounded off at its edges, that it shared much in common with your mom’s voluptuous butt, including a crack in the veneer, each exposing an asshole if you had the wherewithal and curiosity to brush aside the two soft shells in its way. Your peers had been right. Everything had worked without a hitch. The ends justified the Machiavellian means, and there were no victims, regardless of how questionable the means were. And you were happy. Happy and calm and confident. For once.

A week later, you were at the doorstep of one of your classmates. It was Friday night and also his birthday. You waited there patiently, sweating, part of you hoping someone would open the door, and even more of you hoping that nobody would. You knew why you had been invited. It was as a thank you. That was all it was. A thank you, and a ‘please, never tell her what we were all unlucky enough to know before she came.’

The door was opened by the birthday boy’s mom, and she ushered you in with a smile. It was the only genuine smile directed at you that night. At least while you were at the house. That smile, pied-pipered you through the living room, where the dad was watching hockey, into the basement, where you felt like you were descending into a hell inhabited by all-familiar voices. The guys were playing Super Smash Brothers or shooting pool on the dad’s ungaurded pool table. You stood aside with your hands in your pockets, looking like you were nowhere in particular and nowhere in particular was a place in your nightmares. You half-wanted to nudge yourself into one of these games, but you knew you weren’t wanted. A few people said hi to you as they passed. Including the guy who convinced you his plan would work out fine. He hovered around you, ghostlike, as if he wanted to say something, then he must have thought better of it and he walked off awkwardly.

As the night wore on, and you watched the Smash Brothers tournament from the corner seat of the couch, just happy that they had a full roster of Nintendo properties to keep them from focusing on you and why it was you were even there, the most humiliating olive branch of all. Why were you even invited, other than for the obvious reason? It would have been better if they left you alone. Then you could forget about the devil’s bargain you had made. But they made the mistake of trying to be kind, and you made the mistake of obliging their misguided benevolence, a decision you regretted with each step towards this house, and with each step, your will to turn around grew less and less. And going back home was no longer in the roledex of decisions, as you told you your mom where you were headed and she didn’t expect you back. And now here you were, a fifth wheel on what was ostensibly a vehicle riding a road to nowhere. A boy rewarded for leaving your mom’s ass in the mousetrap, as everyone here was aware, and your mom’s ass was on everybody’s mind as a result.

The sweat and fear had you in the Venn diagram of their empires, or in the no-man’s land between them. As the night wore on, they began playing another fighting game. One with anime characters. First, each player chose a male fighter, never a female one, likely afraid they’d appear gay to their peers, but once that taboo was breached without comment, each player after that, also without comment, chose their own half-naked female fighter to represent their young punchyness in the virtual space.

The female fighters had wardrobes that were unrealistic and impracticable, even more strange presumably because they knew they were in for a fight at a set time or in the near future. Bras, and skirts, and tight tank-tops and one-piece bikinis flooded the screen as you watched. And as if your mind had been read, or you transferred these thoughts through the awkward ether of that basement, the far-fetched dress of the fighters became a topic for conversation. It was a way for them to broach the subject of how irresistible they found these cell-shaded beauties without ever saying that they found them irresistible. They were dancing around the elephant in the room, the elegant perfection of the female form. Ass, legs, tits and thighs.

“Wouldn’t the flaps on her costume fly up if she jump-kicked like that?”

“Yeah, so stupid, right?”

“Yeah, exactly.”

“And wouldn’t her boobs fly out of her shirt? Are they glued in her bra?”

Everyone started laughing.

The comedian smiled to himself, realizing he had made his friend’s laugh, “like, they’re so big, the G-force would send them flying out.” Another home-run.

Then, another voice, one you have never heard, from a kid you had never seen, a childhood friend of the birthday boy who went to a different school. “Yeah, and no girl has a body like that. It goes against gravity.”

Everybody turned over to look at him, even the two kids with controllers in their hands, though only for a second, then they went back to smashing their controllers, trying to kill each other on screen.

“Right?” he pleaded awkwardly, afraid in the neurotic throws of youth that he had made some time-hallowed mistake, one passed down carefully from one generation to another, and kept alive by the torch of all under legal drinking age and forgotten in the grey-maturity of adulthood. All of this, and somehow he failed to get the memo.

“Right?”

“There are bodies like that in real life,” someone suggested after some silence. “I’ve seen them.”

Your mom’s pale-white skin wasn’t nearly as good on you. Especially when you went tomato-red with embarrassment and fear, like you were now.

“Really?” The boy asked.

“Yeah.”

“Where?”

“Umm, just around,” the explainer said, and looked away awkwardly.

“Really? How many?” asked the new kid.

“….only one,” the explainer offered up.

His makeshift pupil looked around at the others to gauge their reaction.

“Yeah, I agree,” was offered up by one of them as he was playing the game. He didn’t even look over. “I saw one once with huge boobs like in this game, and with an even bigger butt. She had big eyes too. Like cartoon-eyes.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” someone else said.

“You seen her too?”

“Ummm,” he said, “I’ve seen a girl like that, I don’t know if it was the same one he saw.”

You sunk back in the chair. Nobody looked at you. They didn’t dare. They were all hoping you were too stupid to pick up on the quagmire that had just walked themselves into. You could see the guilt through just the side profile of their faces. But they couldn’t lie. Bodies like the ones on the screen now really did exist, and they refused to let anyone believe otherwise in the way that young people never can when they learn a new truth. Especially a truth about the bodies that fascinated them so. You and your mom were collateral damage under the heavy wheel of their impulse to share what they only recently learned. Her body, as a neutral factor in life, though not in its flesh, was there’s to brag about their knowledge of its existence. They had every right, though they knew better than to not feel guilty. That was the trade-off for making your mom’s body a star yet again, a sun in the solar system of this conversation. Though, if your mom’s ass was the sun in the sky, there would be no war, or, maybe, more wars and more child-sacrifices to please it. To feed it and make it happy and to keep it big and soft.

The night wore on and you wore out with it. The Nintendo 64 was shut off and the VHS player was turned on. While everyone was laughing in the dark at the movie on the screen, Deuce Biggalow, Male Gigolo, the light of which reflected within their eyes, you got up slowly and snuck your way out up the stairs, trying your very best to be as silent as  shadow. Your heartbeat itself sounded like it would wake up the neighbors, but not once did one set of a TV-lit yes look your way. You creeped up into the yellow light of the main floor. The birthday boy’s parents were sleeping on the couch with a news program playing in the back. You left the house quietly, making sure to shut the front door as quietly as you opened it. It was 2 in the morning, and you walked down the empty street. The air was warm, but delightful after the cramped humidity of that basement. And the night was clear and open, unlike the crowd of unignorable implications down there.

You walked at a nice pace, but your walk eventually evolved into a steady run as you heard weird sounds in the left-behind dark, often sounding like they were coming from something in the shadows trailing behind you. 

You finally made it to your street and you turned the corner and kept running. And as you rounded the bend, your driveway came into view, and your sanity came into view with it, and then suddenly as you got close, you saw something was wrong. Behind your mom’s minivan, you saw it. And your soul and breath left your body in that instant.

You faltered for a second, but then you continued running, hoping it would up and evaporate as you approached it. And as you got closer, it only burrowed itself deeper into your sinking reality, like a bull in quicksand that fights against it with the same resolve it fought all other obstacles in its short life, making its predicament concrete, boxed and wrapped and placed under a red bow and left on the doormat of Mother Nature and Father Time.

You stood there in your driveway, panting, pleading with breath. Afraid to move. Afraid to do anything, as if each step you’d take would swallow you whole, making you prisoner, encased in the cement of your driveway.

Suddenly, a hand, from outside of your shellshocked dream-state, grabbed you by your shoulder.

You turned around to see your classmate. The one who tried to talk to you earlier that night.

“Sorry,” he said, realizing he startled you. “I saw you get up and leave, and I followed you. Why did you leave?”

You just stood there, looking back.

“You should come back to the party. The movie is funny. Were you scared of the Scary Movie one? That one is a funny movie too. It’s not really scary. You’ll see when we watch it. I won’t tell anybody if that’s why you left.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t even if you knew what to say and had the will to say it.

“Look man. I just wanted to tell you tonight that I’m really happy you did what you did for us. It took a lot of balls, and I’m not afraid to go back to school Monday, thanks to you. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt that way. I wanted to say that before but it just felt weird. To be honest, you took a huge risk to do that, and I’m happy it all worked out. Because it easily could have gone bad. I know I told you it would all work out, and I really did believe that, but I’m just glad nothing bad happened. It easily could have. Your mom is just such a nice lady and I’m just so glad he didn’t get his chance to pound her.”

You sucked back air suddenly and almost fell backwards. You tried to compose yourself, but it was too late, he had noticed, and you’d never be able to pull back the hands of Father Time’s clock, nor change the impulses and ways Mother Nature placed in the hearts of the young everywhere. He had noticed. And he looked behind you, and when he saw what was sitting there in plain sight, what you had been forced to take into your account of the universe and where it currently was, that monument to the sky itself falling sitting right there, slanted with the incline of your driveway, semi-invisible in the night, the hearse carrying your dignity to its final resting place, in the cold-ground alone, hours before you even knew it was dead.

Sitting there in your driveway, behind your mother’s car, was a black sedan.

His eyes go wide, and his mouth open, thrilled, not scared, in both, and without saying a word he runs passed you and up to your living room window, between the tree and the house, and he looks in and his eyes go even more wide, and he steps back a few paces, almost in shock, before coming to his bearings, turning towards you, running in your direction, then passed you, then down the street, then into the blackness of the night as if he were never there. Another hallucination, just like the sedan, like you fell asleep during that movie, in your secluded corner in that crowded basement, and never woke up. It was all just a dream. Please let it all be a dream. The abyss of your mind pushing you superficially into the mouth of horror one last time before your final victory lap or horse-clop into the sunset.

The air of the night, the most distinct feeling in life, could not be reconstructed by the dreaming mind. That’s how you knew you were still awake.

Your eyes start to well-up. You stand there alone again in your agony and horror. But without anyone to answer for it, and without a ledge nearby to grab and save yourself from drowning in the black waters of it. Your mouth is dry and the world around you feels unreal and fake, like the set of a sitcom. And this unreality becomes more and more vivid as all around you becomes easier and easier to see, first as your eyes adjust to the darkness, but then as the darkness begins to fade. And within an hour, the night is over, and the early morning sun, though not there quite yet, at least not through the partition between the earth and the sky of suburban houses, is preceded by its light.

And no sound above distant traffic penetrates this strange moment, until it does, and it does in the form of voices. First barely audible, then audible, then placeable, then, much to your stomach’s protest, distinguishable and familiar. And you see them round the bend and begin running your way. 13 kids running down the street, first as a blip, then as a cloud, then as a series of faces, each one more stunned and anxious than the last, with the face you had seen up close only an hour ago leading them on this exodus towards you. The birthday boy points at the black sedan in shock, amazed it was really there, knowing exactly where to look for it and amazed that it was exactly where he was told it would be.

They completely bypass you when they get to you. At least the first few rows, but then you’re caught up in the crowd and pushed along towards your house. And you knew who it was that was leading them to this watering hole. You hear his voice among there’s: “hopefully they’re still doing it.” And you’re pushed along without your input one way or the other, until you end up in front of the window, a victim of this strange Ludovico, but not the kind who puts up anything resembling a fight. A captive in chains along a road back to Babylon.

Pinned between the limited space between your house and the evergreen tree guarding it, folded in with the peers who never liked you, one with them physically now while the one apart in any other sense. All other senses in fact. And you all look inside, even you, not even concerned with averting your eyes or denying what awaits you. And because of that, what awaits you is what you see.

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The end of your childhood. But not the beginning of your manhood. That would never come. The man in your house, plowing your mom’s perfect ass had predicted that. He was now hammering in the final nails in that coffin with his very own pelvic thrusts. Your dignity and manhood, partners in oblivion, buried alive, next to one another a Romeo and Juliet who never had their time in the sun, unlike the Romeo and Juliet encased perfectly in the glass of your very own window like a tragic zoo exhibit. Endangered exotic, and colorful beyond imagination.

Two bodies becoming one animal. One animal that was in the throws of tearing you to shreds. The only victims of its claws and teeth in a crowd. The “why me?” of all “Why me’s?”. The upturned shovel dropping cold dirt on your two coffins. You’d be identified as the only individual in that crowd by strangers looking at the out-of-focus photo within seconds like spotting a bunny among foxes. It’s funny how little has to change in a brow to differentiate the look of shocked exhilaration in some faces from shocked horror in another. Your soul screamed from behind the glass of your eyes like your mom being fucked by your teacher screamed from behind the glass of your window. Both zoo exhibits into your utter nothingness and ever-living humiliation, personified, given a specific rhythm being drummed out to the audience surrounding you. *Thwap* *Thwap* *Thwap* like Native American drums. A big black drumstick, and the most beautiful and wide ceremonial drum you had ever seen. The gods would be happy. The crops will be wet with rain.

The cloud about you, and at odds with you, was black and filling with an electrical charge, as if ready to make lightning. Strangely enough, they looked over for your reaction second. First they looked at the birthday boy’s naysaying friend. “See,” one of them said, “I told you bodies like that existed.”

“Wow,” he said, evidently excited, “that’s what they must have based those girls on.”

They weren’t just taking in a wild freak-show, your mom as the star, but also a delight to the senses, though none of them put that into words, each one pretending they were there for the spectacle of it. For all of them, their introduction to the naked female form, and the naked female form being used for what it was made for, was your very own mom. And what an introduction. The best introduction, as there was no number higher than 10, and no number less than 11 representing your mom, and 12 representing her body.

The guilt was still there, palpable in the air of their exhaled breaths, but it was washed out by their spiking curiosity that shot from their skin like electricity.

“She’s getting up!”

Many comments were being made about he size of your teacher’s cock.

“She can fit that whole thing?” the outsider asked.

Some of them looked over at you as if you knew the answer.

“Apparently she can,” said the one who assured you falsely that this would never happen, and he laughed as he said it.

“Watch, she’s getting on top.”

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“She’s like a cartoon!”

“Even better because she’s real.”

“I know.”

“He must be having fun.“

“They’ve been doing this all night,” the ringleader of this mob explained, “They were the same an hour ago.” He was excited to get that out there. Excited because this was all his doing. His and the guy who threatened to give you a beating if you made your mom’s ass too scarce at that strategically vital juncture. Their obligations to you didn’t supersede their obligations to everyone else. In their young minds, where nothing stays static for long, they already moved on from their promise, guarantee and gratitude to you, to their joy in watching a woman with a perfect ass being fucked and sharing it with their friends, especially knowing they had a hand in making it happen.

Even their hatred for their teacher couldn’t touch their thrill. If anything, it could only add to it. Your pain, it could only add to it. The thought that he has no need to be nice to you from now on, it could only add to it. The idea that the worst teacher they were likely to ever have had gotten, and would always have the memory of getting, the most perfect woman any of them were likely to see, it could only add to it. It was a body of factors all in perfect proportion to one another, mimicking the perfection of your mom herself, or the perfection in her body, which was unmatched by anything in nature, including the sunrise that acted as a background detail to this moment. Your teacher was now the luckiest man they ever knew of. The least deserving of that luck, but luckiest all the same. And you were the least luckiest, something they were grateful for, a grateful that exceeded the grateful they felt for you leaving things in place so your teacher believed this could all happen one day. It could happen, as clear as the morning behind and before you in the opposing window, and it so easily didn’t have to with just a few choice words they kept you from saying with threats and promises of a self-serving nature. Your mom’s ass would have been pristine. Untouched by your teacher, and unseen by them. But they made sure, unknowingly, that they would be milking your life, your existence itself and everything in it, for all it was worth, your mom’s body being your life’s most valuable object. Your life would always be defined by your mom’s ass in any case, each outside observer casting it mentally in their favorite shroud (jeans, jeans shorts, sweatpants, tights) but now it would be defined by your mom’s ass naked and being fucked, with no variation in memory or visual.

There was the vague understanding, unspoken among them, that this would be their greatest moment in a long life of great ones. Even losing their virginity to their first real girlfriends couldn’t compete to this. Losing one’s virginity was a universal (for all but you, nuns, and monks), but this wasn’t. This was an incredibly rare moment between them, something that brought them together like brothers, something they had all had a hand in, something that made them all one. All one at your expense. You were the outsider in the crowd. The one whose domination they united over top of, like criminals swearing an oath over the enemy they buried: Your dignity and manhood, and the sanctity of your mom’s ass with them.

Networks of calls, and later facebook friends (when facebook was finally invented) and even a best man at a wedding were formed through this night. Iron-strength bonds, all predicated on the image of your mom being fucked by the worst man they ever knew. You would be party to none of it. You couldn’t be. Social circles, big and beige, as luscious in their radius as your mom’s ass itself.

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That Monday, he came in like a wrecking ball, full of the momentum from two weeks of suspending himself in the dead air like a cloud, against his very nature, and he smashed into the side of your class as if the school was condemned to be torn down. What went up, must come down. He had gotten what he wanted, so the dog and pony show was over. And the rest of that year was a living hell. And you were worse off than anybody. Before he targeted you as just another face in the crowd, fodder for his need to dominate. But now you were his favorite punching bag, and he derived glee from destroying you most of all. His treatment of you was like a warped monstrous thing, beyond even what you though he were capable of. And your classmates watched on horrified, feeling lucky in comparison, knowing that all this was their fault. But they wouldn’t trade their situation for anything, not even themselves, never mind you and your mom’s week of tears and confusion after he had gotten all he could want from her.

And as the years passed, they would forget that it was all their fault, or at least forget what the guilt about it felt like. But they would never forget it. And they would never forget you by extension. And that reputation would follow you into high school, something you were sure of when you saw your former classmates whispering to students from different junior highs in the background, keeping your legend alive, and their bonds tight.

So much for making friends in high school.

But maybe college would be different. How would anyone there find out about what it is you went through. Especially if you went to a college on the other side of the country. You’d be free from the ever-hungry shadow of your mom’s ass, and you’d be able to resettle and regroup and rebuild your manhood and dignity again from scratch.

And then you could be happy. And you’d prove your teacher and old classmates wrong. Right?

You greatly underestimated the power of the internet.

2 thoughts on “The Golden Scale

  1. Great story. A time when the mother sees her son looking at her being fucked and unable to do anything about it would be great, particularly if the son had a hardon.

    Liked by 1 person

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