You don’t know of anyone who is anywhere near as adored
as you mother is. This adoration was two-fold. Adoration for who she was
(her personality), and adoration for what she was (her body and face).
You could relate to the first locus of the universal regard for her
easily enough. It came as quickly to you as consciousness itself did.
There was never a time, at least none you could remember, where your
mom’s wonderful psychic being wasn’t everything to you. Your sun in that
sense. And at night time, your North Star.
The second source of flowing adoration for her, being her gorgeous face and soft-white body, came to you with puberty, when suddenly, and without warning, the sight of your teacher, Mrs. Zobraya, bending over the desk to reach your class’s freshly marked tests, was all of a sudden the greatest image you could imagine seeing.
Suddenly, you found it very easy to relate, and sympathize with, what it was the rest of the male gender felt for your mom. There was a one-two punch in your head. Two revolutionary notions. They came to you in this order, overlapping each other at their at the point where each thinned out: “I want Mrs. Zobraya’s ass more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life,” and “men want my mom’s ass the way I want Mrs. Zobraya’s ass. It’s the exact same feeling, and they’ve been feeling it for her my entire life.”
And because those two thoughts came at the same time, the twin fantasies were developed together: You straddling over Mrs. Zobraya’s upward facing ass, and plunging into it like it was perfect jacuzzi water in the cup of your pelvis, and feeling all it had to give, which was a lot, judging by the size of it. Likewise, the thought of your gym teacher doing the same to your mom. His muscles and white flesh, with all his light blonde peach fuzz glowing on his legs and stomach, behind your mom’s soft rump, pumping into it in the sunlight that was let into her room through the horizontal slats of the blinds. My god, both thoughts were just heaven to you.
You would play with your dick thinking about these ideas, sometimes not being able to separate them. Your mom’s body would become Zobraya’s and vice-versa, leading you to often imagine your gym teacher fucking Mrs. Zobraya, which was nice. A little bit more than nice actually. But the first time you ever had an orgasm, and what an orgasm it was, was to the thought of your mom being had by your gym teacher. You just hated him so much, and feared him even more, so the thoughts of the his naked body, which you feared and hated every inch of, from the top of his blonde head, down to the orange soles of his big feet, all of it enjoying your mom’s heavenly body for an end the universe must’ve known was evil, it was just too much not to love.
And as you graduated high school, the thoughts of Mrs. Zobraya faded with your contact with her. Her ass was like a dream. Vivid and gorgeous when in recent memory, but gone like the sands in the top half of the hourglass by the two exterminating blades of time and gravity. But you would never lose contact with your mom, her ass would sometimes come within inches of your face or thighs on a near-daily basis, so the thoughts of her being taken by the world full of men who felt they needed her, your greatest revelation, one that swooped down on you riding the violent wings of fleshy puberty, flooded your mind like your cum would flood tissue or white sock.
mom would pick up your white socks from your bedside and take them with
the rest of you clothes down to the laundry room. There was no way she
didn’t know what you were doing with those white socks she bought you,
nor with the tissue box she put in your room once a month after grocery
shopping, but she never mentioned it. Why would she? She, like all moms,
loved her son, and she liked having her little glimpse into the male
world that her son’s odd behaviors provided in a strange way. She at
least found it amusing, if not a bit much.
If only she knew what was in your mind that helped you fill those socks and tissues with your cum. She probably didn’t even consider that other men, including your former classmates, had been filling their socks and tissues to thoughts of her and her ass. She was the center of the male universe and she didn’t even know it. Her glowing visage produce enough cum to have it rain from the sky monthly, but she would never know.
All women underestimated the effects of their bodies, especially women who had bodies which were particularly good at producing that effect, just like the young through the generations have always been the ones to underestimate the magic of youth, only to realize what they had after it was too late. Your mom had no idea just how powerful that hourglass-shaped stick of dynamite below her neck was. She had no idea that her pretty face only multiplied its firepower. She had no idea that it was the most important thing in the universe and it was the prime mover of all other things. Even if she did understand evolution and sexual selection’s place in that process, which she never really gave much thought to, it would only serve to gray and dampen her understanding of it on an emotional level, just like how the 1% of men who get to be famous are blessed to experience what it’s like to have women chasing after them, aggressively and shamelessly, but they’ll never know what it actually means for one of those women to peel down his pants and underwear and come face-to-face with the twitching and thankful cock of a celebrity.
Your mom was that. Heaven. Just by showing up. Her mere presence brought joy.
imagine what joy could be brought to the world if the spectacle of her
could be made international and ever-available. Not just international
and ever-available, but complete. What if time and space ceased to be an
obstacle, but also clothing along with it? What if the memory of her
clothed self, and the imagined notion of her naked self, became
old-fashioned in the esteemed game of spilling one’s seed to her? What
if one could see her anywhere, anyhow, at any time, as long as they had
an internet connection? What if they could see her in any state of
dress? What if at one point in time in Chicago, a white sock, wet with
its owner’s cum, the sweet result of your mom’s sweet body’s effect on
the viewer’s sweet mind, hit the ground at the exact same moment that a
white tissue, also wet with cum, hit the ground, heavy with the result
of your mom’s fleshy visage being made available down in India?
Not just the future of masturbation, now a communal religious experience to shared images transmitted through magic windows. But the future of your mom too. Your mom as one of the first cybernauts, whose succinctly human and idealized human female form is one of the first (comparatively) movements towards that universality. Your mom’s body, completely divorced from her mind, the obstacle which had to be bypassed, and despised in order to bypass properly, as a God that men around the world prayed to in the most private way. A fevered idol worship of an idol made of living , breathing flesh with prayer as a form of masturbation. Your mom as an idea and an image. Nothing more. Your mom as the abstraction representing the triumph of male technology over the sacrosanct untouchableness of womanhood.
That was the future and you knew it. And you wanted to strap your mom up with the equipment, like a monkey being sent to the stars on a one-way mission, slap her ass and send her on her way. For science. For man. For God.
She wouldn’t be the first. No. The internet was
surprisingly full of images of mother’s being made public by their
sons. But she would be the hottest by far, at least as far as you’ve
seen. The most angelic. The most creamy white and pure. And while you
didn’t know the personalities of the other naked female cybernauts you
had the pleasure of seeing, you knew that it was unlikely that any of
them were near to what your mom was. Your mom, who was so unbelievable
witty, kind and smart, would be an absolute joy for you to multiply her
physical beauty passed the point where her psychic beauty could be
recognized and taken in. Nobody had the patience to take in all the
mental beauty of a stranger. Nobody had the patience to not take in the
physical beauty of a stranger. It was the lizard brain’s triumph over
the rational pre-Freudian mind.
Your mom as an
object to jerk off to to thousands of times more people than she would
ever be the comedian, the Councillor, or the teacher. Your mom, the
unwitting and unaware dancer at a club with her name as neon right over
the front door. The patrons all invisible and silent. Her dance, a salt
of the earth rendition called The Working Woman Changing After a Long
Day of Work or Perfect Ass Washes up in Shower Voyeur.
These thoughts percolated in your mind over the tea-bag of possibility. They were about to reach a boiling point.
One day, you came home from work to an ostensibly empty house. You stood in the living room, trying to slide your phone into your pocket, when suddenly you heard ruffle noises from your mom’s room. Her door was hanging open, and the grey paint of her room was visible from your angle. She was humming a song in there. A nice one at that. Visions of what your mom was doing in there flashed through your mind, and your status as ghost in the house your mom never heard you walk into gave you an impish jolt.
Visions of the ends of her hair
strands brushing the floor like a moving waterfall, brushing her feet as
she bent over to slide her panties off of her legs, her marvelous bent
ass facing the open doorway, and the endless infinities contained
without it, and her marvelous face towards the ground, where there were
no loose factors to be noticed, giving no clue that there were any loose
factors anywhere, but especially behind her or waiting in the living
room with his phone in his hand. The prettiest dove you’ve ever seen and
a sitting duck at that.
All just fantasies and
far-off dreams of course. The fevered fancies of a pervert mind. The son
of a hot mom entertaining what the minds of the sons of hot moms
everywhere entertain, willingly or unwillingly. Just a little extra
something blowing invisible with the slight breeze. There was no way
your mom was changing with her door wide open, even if she thought you
were still at work.
Your mouth fell open.
Your arms and teeth started to tremble.
mind rattled with images, like photos being cycled rapidly on the pages
of flip-book. Images of curved and plump flesh and a barefoot coming
out of the hole of a black pant leg. Visions of delicate white hands
holding things, on her waist, around her knees or ankles, or in front of
her. up in the air. Thumbs being pressed downwards between her flesh
and clothing material and her back lowering with her shoulders until
it’s horizontal, or at least close enough to horizontal for her finger
to reach the heels of her feet, and her back coming all the way up to
vertical position as loose material, now empty of her, is lifted into
the dead air and thrown into the laundry basket. And her (her lower half
at the bare minimum), no longer sheltered by her clothy ally as she
approaches the laundry basket to discard of the ally no longer
You slowly lifted your phone to your face, almost dropping it due to trembling too much. You clicked on the camera app, smearing your phone face with sweat. The camera app that made amateur photographers of the world. Most pictures, ninety-nine out of a hundred, being just sawdust and clutter. Would your image be different? How about your video? You crept down the hallways slowly, afraid to make a noise, and afraid to pull off what you wanted to pull off. Afraid of fate itself, you heel-toed, heel-toed down the dark of the hall towards it.
You stood by the doorway, hearing your mom’s familiar humming and bunch of ruffling noises just around the corner. What was waiting for you there? Was it going to happen? Could you do it without getting caught? Did you want to do it? You hit record on your phone and you raised it to about chest level. And you extended your arm. Just before you rounded the doorframe, your mom’s humming stopped. You retracted your arm. Then her humming continued. After a few moments, enough to gain your equilibrium again, you slowly started extending your arm. You were just about to round the doorframe. Part of your couldn’t. You wondered if you ever could do it.
You slowly extended your arm. Stopped. Come on, just do it, it’s your only chance, you thought. If she even is changing, she won’t be changing forever.
It was the call to eternity, and you were afraid to pick up the torch
and venture forth. Did you even want this? I mean, you knew you did. You
knew what the thrill would be like, but did you even deserve it? Wait a
minute, this wasn’t about you, was it? It was about the thousands of
glassy eyes with the light of bright fire within them who would get to
fill themselves with her if you only extended that arm.
Your phone was right there, recording the door frame, just an inch over and you’d have it. You’d have it all. And finally, you took a deep breath,
you extended your arm.
Your mom was still humming that catchy tune into the still air.
It took a second for it to hit you.
Please don’t tell me that’s it, you thought. Please. Please tell me she’s going to remove it and start from scratch. Please. Oh god!
as you watched your phone from that uncomfortable angle, your head
against the wall, your mom’s flesh was only covered up more and more by
more clothing, until, *woosh* your candle had been snuffed out,
leaving only a thin column of smoke, signifying what once was for the
taking and was now just a phantom disappearing into the ceiling as you
reached for its hand. And then, it was gone. As if it had never been
there at all.
You struggled to not choke back tears. You wanted to break down and weep, but you’d blow your cover. You slowly placed your phone back into your pocket, which was a tight fit (it had been stretched tight by your hard dick in the front of your pants. Your hard dick which your phone brushed passed as you put it in. The hard dick who fate paid no mind). Then you nonchalantly walked passed your mom’s door. She noticed you and called to you as you were halfway down the hall. “Hey sweety! How was work?!”
You didn’t answer back. You had never hated her more. You never knew such hate for her could exist like it did now. Fucking bitch,
you thought. It didn’t last long. It wasn’t her fault, you figured. She
was doing everything she was supposed to do. If she made it any easier
on you you wouldn’t have even enjoyed the prospect of it happening. She
gave you your moment, which was more than you could have ever expected
her to give, and you blew it harder than you blew everything else in
your stupid life. But at least with everything else, you had the excuse
that to you none of it mattered. With everything else, and everything
You shut your bedroom door behind you, giving yourself the privacy that your mom almost through away. You fell onto your bed and sobbed silently into your cool pillow. You pulled your phone out to see what could be salvaged, if anything. A nipple. A sliver of black butt crack. Anything would have done, like any bit of water would be enough for a man wandering under the desert sun, or any inch of land enough for the man drowning at sea, just a dime-sized column for his toe, enough to keep his head above water.
There was nothing.
You could see your look of absolute gut-wrenching despair in the glass reflection of your phone. You undid your belt. Normally, at around this time when you pulled your belt off, it was so you could play with your cock to thoughts of your mom being fondled or fucked. But now you were removing that belt for a much darker purpose. You had survived it all: The punching, the kicking, the namecalling, the swirlies and wedgies, the isolation, the rejection, and the low self-esteem; all of it tough, none of it insurmountable. You knew you’d beat it in time. You knew there was enough waiting for you in life to brave through all of it.
And what was that “enough” that was waiting for you? Was it this? This softball that fate threw to you with an underhand, in a nice clean arc, as if it knew your meager limitations and sympathized, giving you all the advantage in the world. This was what you bivouacked through the jungles of outrageous fortune for, and it was gone. Your mom was lost. Her naked form was a spirit with the grace of a gazelle, hopping and tiptoeing through thick forest, over river and around trees. It had just stopped to bend over and take its centennial drink of water, making itself vulnerable to do so, and you were right behind its tree, thinking instead of doing. Just like you always did. All you had to do was extend that arm.
And you waited and you
procrastinated, as if opportunity was going to come to you a second time
with bells on. And when the time came, and you took your chance, it was
gone. Its decoy the only thing it left behind: your mom, clothed,
decent and with the dignity guaranteed to her and provided for in every
other instant of her life. The dignity guaranteed to and provided for
most women without getting anything back in return from them for the
You removed your belt and your pants,
leaving only your Star Wars shirt on your red and embarrassed chest.
Your cock and balls free, the way you liked them. You opened up your
laptop and opened up Google Chrome. 20 tabs of mom voyeur videos were
already readied for you. You found the hottest mom you had ever found in
one of those videos, who was nowhere near as hot as your mom was, in
face or body. And you opened up that tab. You wrote a giant note in your
notebook. “Mom, this is what I wanted to do to you,” with arrows over
top of it pointing upward and you placed it before your laptop keyboard.
If you were going to leave off the spiral of this mortal coil prematurely, you wanted the deepest and most personal part of yourself to be exposed to the illuminating bright lights of day. Your dick was hard as you turned around to wrap your belt around the hanging bar in your closet, in between the suit you wore on weddings and your fall jacket. The video of the would-be second-hottest mom voyeur victim played behind you on a loop as you did.
When you finished and you clipped the belt into the furthest hole, you took a deep breath, and maneuvered your head into the narrow, corsette-sized waist of the belt. You turned around, looking at your old familiar room through the frame of your closet doorway. Your favorite mom-voyeur video playing. The woman in it just at the moment of removing her pants, unwittingly exposing her luscious butt crack to 2 million male eyes.
It was all so beautiful.
You lunged forward.
All of existence went black.
*Boom* *Boom* *Boom* *Boom* *Boom*
*Boom* *Boom* *Boom*
“Sweety!? What was that sound?”
“Sweety!? Please open up! Are you okay! Babe!?”
You looked up at your door, the handle spinning impotently within the 20 degree limit set by the lock.
*Boom* *Boom* *Boom*
“I’m here, mom!”
“Oh, thank god. Sweety, what was that noise?”
nothing, mom. Just that bar in the closet fell down.” You could feel
its cool metal against the back of your neck and the rough texture of
your carpet on your knees, thighs, toes, cock, balls, right cheek and
“Ohhh! Geese! What a piece of junk. Do you need help fixing it? Are you okay?”
“No. I mean, yeah, I’m okay. I can fix it myself though. Thanks, mom.”
“Okay. Geese. You really gave me a scare there. How about next time you leave the door unlo-” she stopped herself, likely thinking about the white socks and tissues. “Well, anyways. Just ask if you need any help, okay babe?”
“I will, mom” you assured her, getting up as you did.
You removed your neck from the loop and slowly placed the bar, with clothing still hanging off of it, onto the ground.
You looked up at your laptop. The notebook still on your bed with arrows pointing up at your laptop screen. That mom’s naked buttcrack, seen by million without her even being aware. It extended from the top of her butt cheeks and disappeared down between her thick thighs. She began soaping up her ass, unaware of the free show she was giving to countless happy dicks, all being manipulated by countless happy hands. Unaware that her son had just placed a window between her and a couple million faces. Unaware the she was bathing in front of the seats at Madison Square Garden with 2 millions dicks being jerked and cumming. So much cum, unfathomable amounts. More than the water spilling over her. Just one sperm in one round of that stuff was enough to give her her son. Galaxies worth of sons were spilled for her, civilizations that would never be. All without her knowing.
You bit your bottom lip as you tried in vain to hold back tears.
It was just so beautiful.
You were as good at suicide as you were everything else.
Which was good thing.
You were happy to be alive.
You were surprised your dick could still get hard after the beating you gave it last night. From 3 o’ clock in the afternoon to 3 in the morning, you did nothing but wail on it. You were never one for going through your mom’s stuff. But you just had to today. There was a desperation in you now that you never felt before. Your mom’s silk sheets felt good against your bare ass, and the feint whiff of perfume in her discarded pants smelled good. You rubbed the pant seat against your cock and balls.
You weren’t going to lie. It got you hard. But you felt ridiculous doing it. The video from yesterday played on repeat on your phone which was sitting face up next to you on the bed. You don’t know why you turned it on. Looking at it only made you mad and more desperate. You shut it off.
You grab your mom’s underwear drawer, removing it from the chest-of-drawers and placing it on her bed. You ran your fingers through the pile. You began filming her underwear. Not knowing why, feeling like you were accomplishing nothing. You were running your fingers through a void where your mom’s ass should have been. The panties looked limp and pathetic without an ass to fill them. Even more so by the valley between what they were now, and what they were when with her.
You got up on your knees, and slowly brought yourself so your waist straddled the pile. You then lowered yourself down towards it, and when you felt the soft, feathery mountain on your shaft, you began pumping into it, holding both sides of the drawer with your hands, your right hand holding your phone, which still had its red recording light on as you humped away. Each pump went through a different waist or leg hole and you gyrated around, mixing up the conflagration as you did, your balls being pampered by their softness. And for a while, it was actually pretty good. Until you hit the bottom of the drawer with your cock.
“Ahh, fuck!” you got up and violently threw the drawer of your mom’s bed. Your phone went off with it. You looked down at your phone and gasped when you saw its shattered screen. You picked it up and desperately hit the buttons, waiting and hoping for the screen to come up. Nothing happened. The screen stayed black, pitch black but for your reflection cut up by the spiderweb crack that violated its surface. You put your phone down on your mom’s dresser, face down, unable to look at what it was you did, knowing that you were tight on money and couldn’t replace it.
You fell on your mom’s bed, face down, and began to weep. It all came falling down this week. It was unavoidably true now. You were worthless. You could’ve given millions the unfiltered beauty of your mom’s nudity, and failing that, you didn’t even have your phone to provide you solace in your little solitary world. Your four walls without a window to look out of or let people see into. You didn’t even have the window in your pocket anymore.
You sobbed loudly and uncontrollably.
And then suddenly, you heard the front doorknob turn.
You shot up and ran towards your mom’s bedroom door, tripping on her underwear drawer and falling to your bare knees. You got back up and lifted the drawer, trying to fit it into the grooves of the dresser with her colorful underwear looking back up at you. The front door opened. You finally got it to fit and you pushed the drawer closed with a thud.
shot up and ran down the hallway, your bare ass naked to the living
room, which your mom just walked into, her face down in her purse,
looking up just as you disappeared into your room and slammed the door
shut. She tilted her a bit, then looked back down into her purse for
that business card she had been handed.
there. She must have forgot it at the office. She continued on down the
hallway and into her room. It was just as she left it, except her pants
were sitting on the bed. She didn’t notice. She throws her purse on her
bed. She puts her thumbs into the waist of her pants and leans down.
listen for your room to the ruffling. The sound of a waistband
snapping. And you brace yourself for the cold hard sound of that door
closing. Waiting as the sounds of elastic snapping echoes of your mom’s
flesh. You wait. Expecting it. And you wait and you wait and you wait.
And… it hasn’t been closed yet.
She’s changing with her door wide open.
knees start to tremble, and your arms start to shake. Your mouth is
dry. You grab onto your doorknob and slowly twist it. And you open your
door. You step out into the hallway, dark but for its only source of
light, the natural sunlight spilling in through your mom’s window.
You take a big gulp, and you slowly step towards her door. Heel-toe, heel-toe. You’re almost there. It’s waiting for you. A second chance. You were being handed it on a platter. It was fate. It had been all along. It was here. You were going to do it. Nothing could stop you now.
Just as you got to the door frame, you could smell its wood grain it was so close, you reached down into your pocket.
It was empty.
Your eyes go wide.
You reach down into your other pocket. Nothing there either.
Your phone. You left it in your mom’s room. It was sitting there on the dresser.
You almost collapsed and hit the floor like a sandbag.
You almost screamed.
You were worse than useless. At least the useless know there’s no chance for them. You gave yourself the false hope that there was one for you and you were facing your thousand deaths for it.
You slowly crept backwards into the darkness that birthed you, and slunk back into your room with your mom’s room, ejecting humming and elastic-on-flesh reverberations, still in your site. Just one last look at it and a glimpse of the gray wall inside it, a reminder of what could have been, what glories were contained therein and ready to be extracted for the biggest audience you’d ever by party to. A reminder of what you could have been.
You closed your door.
The sound of your bedroom door closing must have reminded your mom that you were in the house, because hers door closed seconds afterword. And the humming and the subtle, teasing noises of the state between one method of dress to another, were muffled through two doorways. And they slowed down and slowed down until they stopped all together.
You sat on the edge of your bed with your head in your hands.
As you heard your mom, now undoubtedly fully clothed,opening her door and stepping out into your shared space, you felt like a prisoner, trapped under her tyrannical thumb. You were confined to this room she gave you at birth and confined within the unknowing limits she put on your potential. Each confident step was an assault on you. Each article of clothing a violation.
And her steps were getting closer. Too close.
Suddenly, there was a knock on your door.
You sighed deeply. “Yes, mom?” You try to dry away the tears.
“Your phone was in my room. Open up.”
You sigh again and take a deep breath. You head towards the door and you open it to see her standing there, smiling.
“Here you go,” she says and she puts it in your palm.
“Don’t mention it.”
As you got to put it in your pocket, she notices something.
“Did your screen break?”
“Um, yeah. It….”
“How’d that happen.”
“I… dropped it.”
“Um, no. A few days ago.”
“….oh,” she said. “Does it still work?”
“Oh, good. You know, if you want to buy a new one, I can help you out with that.”
“Um, no thanks, mom, it’s fine.”
“Are you sure? It looks pretty ba-“
“Yeah. It’s fine.”
You go to close your door and she puts her arm out.
“Is everything alright?” she asks.
You’re startled. “Yeah… why wouldn’t it be.” You look down.
“Oh, I don’t know. You just look… tired.”
“Yeah, I guess I am. I didn’t get too much sleep last night.”
“Oh. Is there any reason?”
“No, just up all night playing games.”
“Oh! I get it…. You know, if you have anything you ever want to talk about, I’m always there. You know that, right?”
You looked up at her, making direct eye contact. “I know, mom,” and you smiled back at her.
She smiled at you, “Okay, sweety. Get some rest.”
“I will mom.”
She backed out of your room and closed the door.
You stood there for a few seconds, silently, staring at the door. You know, you thought, as far as prison wardens go, I can do worse.You backed up and sat on the corner of your bed. You exhaled. You look down at your phone, looking through its shattered veneer. And you caught your reflection in it. You were smiling. You looked content. You looked accepting of the state you were in. The lot life gave you. And why shouldn’t you be. You had been given so much. Why measure your life by what you didn’t have when what you did have was so much more than most people knew to ask for.
You smiled at yourself approvingly. You did good, kid, you thought.
And then it caught your eye. Just a few inches upwards and to the right. You look up to the see a red glow there.
Is that what I think it is? Was it on the whole-
You shoot up, almost dropping the phone a second time when you did. You turn around to see your laptop sitting on your bed. Your phone charger hanging out of the usb port, unassumingly. The window of your laptop, unshatterd and clean. You hop up onto your bed, and crawl with your knees over to the usb chord. You shove it into the bottom of your phone.
You open up My Computer and you see your phone listed there. You clicked on it with trembling hands. Nothing in the phone. Your heart almost sinks until you remember, you try to put your password in through the broken screen. Somehow, on your third try, it works. Your files are now accessible. You scour through your folders and files, trying to remember how to get to the videos file. When you see it, you start to tremble more.
You click on it and you see a wall of video files. You click on the first one and it’s a video of a river. You close it and you scroll down to the bottom. The last one there, it’s 12 minutes long.
You hold your breath.
You click on it.
And when you do, the first thing that you see, is gray walls.
Your eyes go wide.
You see your fingers rummaging through a soft rainbow of underwear, slowing down in their action, when suddenly, you can see the side of your hip thrusting in and out feverishly.
And suddenly the phone goes flying. Everything goes gray for a second, then pixelated beyond recognition.
Oh no, you think.
then, all of sudden, you come into frame. You’re looking down at it
from the edge of your mom’s bed. The look of shock on your face is
palpable. Palpable because you’re completely visible.
Your hand comes down and picks up the phone. You place it onto your mom’s dresser. Tears welling up in your eyes. Welling up in your eyes as the current-you watches on wide-eyed and riveted. The past-You suddenly spins around and falls to your mom’s bed, crying into her sheets, with your bare ass up in the air. Then, without warning, his head shoots up. He gets up off the bed and breaks for it and trips out of frame with a loud thud.
The top of his head comes back into the
frame and you hear the sound of wood scraping on wood. You hear a drawer
closing just as the front door opens, and he disappears from the shot.
You hear your bedroom door slamming. You looked up at it sitting there
in front of you, closed. You look back down at your laptop. Your teeth
And moments pass. And moments. And moments. And the phone sits there in the same shot, which includes the bulk of your mom’s room, all except the left corner. It’s sitting on its side at this point, leaning on your mom’s mirror. Any slight thing can tip it over flat.
And then your mom shows up in the shot. She’s in her work clothes. She throws her purse on her bed, and….
she puts her fingers down into her waistband and she….
she tugs her waistband down, and
Her underwear comes down with it.
And her butt crack, unobstructed and glorious, comes into full view.
goood!” you say out loud. You shoot upwards and push yourself back with
your heels. Your mom’s ass, completely nude and bent over, compromised
beyond compromise. She then removes her shirt and her socks. Every
stupid piece of clothing that gave you so much grief. All of it gone.
Burned away in the atmosphere.
Her big ass, both
cheeks, with a pure-black butt crack, totally visible from bottom to
top, to separate them, so fat and nice, nicer than you thought it could
be. Your mom’s nice fat ass, just… there. That was all you were asking
of it and it pulled through. It was there. There and there only, and it
brought with it a joy that was maddeningly circular and infinite, like
you couldn’t dig deep enough within yourself to find its source.
And then she turns around. She looks down at your phone, right into the lens, right into your eyes. She smiles. Not knowing that she’s looking into the window. Not knowing she’s looking into the eyes of millions. Not knowing she’s looking at the son who loves her so much he has to share her with the world to keep from going insane.
you, mom,” you whisper to her. “Thank you for giving me life, and
shelter, and food and love so it could all lead up to here. All lead up
to this one moment. It was all worth it. All so worth it. They’re all
going to love your fat ass.”
You hear a door
slam. And your mom jumps, startled. She goes over out of frame, and you
hear her door close. She comes back into frame and looks through her
underwear drawer. She’s having problems sliding it open. She gets it
open, and you watch as she slides on on a nice pair. You knew it felt
good on her skin because it felt good on yours.
And then she puts on pants. And then a shirt. And then socks. And then it’s over. Over but not forgotten. Over, but always there for you. There for you and anyone else lucky enough to find it. You copy the file onto your computer.
You look at the file, finding it hard to believe it actually exists. Finding it hard to believe you were, at all times from here on out, a double-click away from heaven.
You open up your favorite porn site. You click on the Upload Video button.
You titled the video Hidden Camera Films my Mom’s Fat Ass.
You wait for your video to process. It asks you what you want your thumbnail to be. You know exactly what you want.
That’s the image you set as the thumbnail as you slap your mom on her butt and send her into cyberspace. Your contribution to the world
Your mom. Your cybernaut. Your best friend.
Your free piece of ass.