On the Other Side of the Wall

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.

Your 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.

But 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.

Your 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 protecting her.

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!

But 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 else only.

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 privelege.

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?”

*Boom* *Boom*

“Sweety!? Please open up! Are you okay! Babe!?”

You groaned.

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?”

“It’s 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 palms.

“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.

You 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.

It wasn’t 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.

You 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.


Your 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.

“Thanks, mom.”

“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.”

“Okay, good.”

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.

“Ahhh fuck!”

And suddenly the phone goes flying. Everything goes gray for a second, then pixelated beyond recognition.

Oh no, you think.

And 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 rattling.

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.

“Ohhhh 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.

“Thank 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.

Show and Tell

The camera was huge in your little hand. It was magical as far as you saw it. Like an accessory Link would pull out of a big chest to celebratory music, one that made his continuing journey through the dungeon, and the world surrounding it, a relative breeze.  That was you now, equipped with this techno-wizardy, heavy in your hands, handed to you by your teacher. Do what you wilt.

The sun mirrored your joy in the glass of the sky. You felt like an adult. Excited to film your masterpiece and show all your classmates and your teacher. Your little window into your little life, the one you knew so well, laid up on the glass of the AV room’s tube television, rolled out into the middle of the chalkboard for the festivities. But all your classmates had been given cameras just like you. That meant tight competition and a fire beneath you, pushing you to make your film memorable.

When you got home, you greeted your smiling mother and received from her your daily hug, which she kneeled down benevolently to give you, capping off a perfect day at school. She smelled like flowers. Her body was always so soft against yours. She asked you how your day was, and you said good, leaving it at that, too shy to mention the camera that you left on the shelf and the movie you were supposed to film with it.

After she left into the deeper reaches of the labyrinth that was your house, you grabbed your camera and went about that labyrinth, first filming the living room. “This is the TV,” you would say, “where I watch the Ninja Turtles and Spongebob. And this is my mom’s book. It says ‘Pride and… pree joo dice.’ She really likes reading it on the couch,” and you’d pan over to get a shot of the couch, which was dressed with silk covers and a pair of sweatpants. Then in the kitchen: “here’s the stove. I’m not allowed to touch it. My mom bakes cookies in it and mac & cheese on the top. And here is our bowl of fruit.” Two ripe oranges sat next to each other in it. “And here is mom’s banana.” It sat half-eaten on the plate.

You went downstairs to film your Nintendo 64 with Legend of Zelda sitting on its throne in the slot. You brimmed with pride at that one, thinking it would be the centerpiece of your film. “It took me a long time but I beat the Deku Tree,” you explained with pride. “Then you get to go to a big world and fight skeletons tha come from underground.”

You went back upstairs, filming the steps as you did, and your mom’s pink sock which fell from her laundry basket on her way upstairs this morning. You went to your room, bypassing the sound of the shower through the bathroom door echoing through the hallway. The camera, having just adjusted itself to the dark of your hallway, readjusted itself to the soft sunlight and baby-blue walls of your room. You filmed your Ninja Turtle bed covers with pride. And then you filmed your Ninja Turtle action figures, all four of them, standing side by side with fully articulated limbs and their signature weapons in their hands. “My favorite is Michelangelo,” you said, “he’s the funniest,” you giggled.

You headed back through the hallway, passed the bathroom door, which was now barely containing the muffled sounds of a hair dryer. You went into your mom’s room, the soft sunlight less prominent, and her walls a soft beige, where clothing had been laid down flat on the bottom half of her bed over her brown bedcovers. “My mom is going to a fun-raiser tonight,” you explained. “Here is her shirt. And her dress,” you said, as you panned from right to left, slowly “and her undies. And her socks.” You showcased her perfumes and deodorant on her dresser, and in the background of the shot, you stood in the mirror’s reflection. You sprayed one of her perfume bottles into the air, the mist barely registering on film. “It smells lie flowers,” you said. You then filmed her nightstand and her bedside lamp, underneath which sat another book. “Vin… vin duh cay… cay tee ohn? Vin duh cay tee uhn.. of the… Rights… of Women.” You smiled behind the camera, proud you were able to say it. “At least I think that’s how you say it. Mary… Wole stuh… stuh. Mary Wolston… craft?”

You turned around and headed back out into the hallway. You had filmed so much. But you knew you needed more. You needed more if you were going to blow the socks off your classmates and teacher. What you had so far was already so great. But Timothy had a swingset in his backyard, or so you heard from the other kids. You needed more.

As you thought about what it was that would push your work of art over the edge, your mom was singing in the washroom. “The raindrops keep falling on my heaad. That doesn’t mean that I would soon be surely dead. Duh duh-duh du-duh duh-duh duh.”

And then it hit you!

“Because I’m freeeee”

Your Ninja Turtles toothbrush!

“nothing’s worrying meee.”

You ran toward the bathroom door with your camera in front of you, and you tugged quickly at the handle.


Your palms were sweating, your knees were weak, and your arms were heavy as you stood in the front of the class, 27 sets of dead eyes looking up at you as your teacher hooked the camera into the VCR. Your had sat through 20 other videos that day, each one pretty good, but Timothy’s being heads and tales above the rest, just as you feared. His swingset, and now slide, which was a big surprise to you and everybody else in class, as his film’s centerpiece.

You had to beat him. It wasn’t your fault your mom couldn’t afford a swing and a slide for you. And both Anthony and Becky owned a Nintendo 64 with a Legend of Zelda. And 4 others owned Sony Playstations. Half the kids owned toys just like you did, and Jonathan showed off his fully functioning Batman utility belt and his train set. The competition was more stacked than you thought it would be. If you were going to come out on top, it would be your Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles toothbrush that would do it. It can happen.

“I think it can. I think it can,” you mouthed to yourself. You gulped.

“You ready?”

You looked over to see your fresh-faced teacher, an ancient man to you, no older than 30 when viewed by a more discerning adult mind. He was smiling as he stood up, his right thumb on the play button of the camera you had brought home only yesterday.

You looked out at the dead-stares of your peers. You gulped again.

“…yes.” you said.

He hit play.

The image of your living room exploded onto the screen. Your two separate worlds, the one at home and the one here at school were united as one now. The dream-like dividing line between them had been erased, leaving only the chalk-like smears on the board between that distinction internal to your understanding.

Your own voice eerily echoes from the TV: “This is the TV, where I watch the Ninja Turtles and Spongebob. And this is my mom’s book. It says ‘Pride and… pree joo dice.’ She really likes reading it on the couch,” 

You looked out at your audience. Their eyes still dead. Were they like that for all the other videos? Or was your video particularly boring? You shuffled around uncomfortably, your teeth almost chattering in your mouth. Luckily nobody could hear that over the sound of, of all things, your own voice.

“It took me a long time but I beat the Deku Tree, then you get to go to a big world and fight skeletons who come from underground.” 

Your viewers took no joy in your explanation of a game that half the class already played, and the other half took no interest in to begin with. You felt like the walls were closing in on you, and the roof, was about to fall in on top of you, straining to hold up the weight and the momentum of the fallen blue sky. You looked over at your teacher. He was yawning. He gave you a little thumbs up through the yawn. A token gesture you knew better than to take as a good sign, even in the naive notions of youth.

“My favorite is Michelangelo, he’s the funniest.” The peanut gallery stood (or rather sat), unimpressed at the pieces of plastic the TV-You held in his hands. Those same hands up on the screen hung now at your sides, trembling.

“My mom is going to a fun-raiser tonight,” You looked over at your teacher. He was yawning again. As if he were trapped in the same yawn you saw him in the throws of last time you looked at him. “Here is her a shirt. And her dress. And her undies.” Suddenly, your teachers eyes narrowed mid-yawn. “And her socks.”

You heard a strange noise to your left. Startled, you looked over to see your classmates giggling. It was the first laugh you heard all day. No other videos got a laugh. You tried to hide your smile, feeling it tug at your cheeks and the corners of your mouth, and you crossed your restless arms, trying to keep them still and inconspicuous, even as electric currents ran through them, from your wrists to your shoulder, all up and down and back and forth.

“Vin… vin duh cay… cay tee uhn? Vin duh cay tee uhn.. of the… Rights… of Women. At least I think that’s how you say it. Mary… Wole stuh… stuh. Mary Wolston… craft?”

“That’s right,” you heard your teacher say from behind you. “Mary Wollstonecraft.”

You bit down on your inner-cheek to keep your the corners of your mouth from betraying your pride.

You then watched your TV-hand put down the book. And the TV-You walked from inside your mom’s room back into the dark of the hallway. Then there was nothing but footage of the hardwood floor and your right foot for 10 seconds. You heard one of your classmates yawning, and you looked over to see a phalanx of dead eyes yet again, as if the laugh you heard earlier was a product of hallucination like one of your semi-annual fever-dreams. You gulped. Your mom’s singing could be heard in the background, muffled by the bathroom door.

“Because I’m freeee, nothing’s worrying meee!”

Suddenly, the camera is jerked back upwards, so suddenly it startles everyone in class, including yourself. And down the hallway TV-You goes, towards the bathroom door. And your TV-hand grabs it, turns the handle, and pulls the door open.

The sudden light blinds the camera, making it strain to mechanically adjust itself to its new context.

“Hey sweety!” you hear.

Suddenly, the camera finishes and achieves its goal of complete naked clarity.


Suddenly, from behind your head, a cacophony of full-bellied laughter erupts.

“Hooollly” your teacher starts, “Ssshhhiiiiii-”

He stands upright so suddenly, you almost jump back. His chair slides out from behind him and falls over. It was as if he tried to lunge at the screen. But he just stood there. And when he notices, or remembers, you standing there, just below the screen itself, he looks down at you and gives you a thumbs up. “Good job,” he says reassuringly, before lifting his chin back up quickly to view the screen.

That, and the sound of your classmates heavy-bottomed laughter had your cheeks feeling red and your chest feeling warm.

“Hi mom.”

“What do you want, babe,” your mom asked as she tended to her face in the mirror.

“My toothbrush.”

“Why?” she asked. “It’s not bed time yet, silly.” She didn’t make eye contact with you once, even through the reflection in front of her. If she did, she would have seen the camera you held within an inch of your face. But she never saw it.

“I just want to see it, mom.”

She grabbed something off the counter in front of her with her left hand, bending over slightly to do so, and she handed it back to you, palms up, over her left hip. “Here you go,” she said, still not seeing you, only feeling your presence there. “It’s Michelangelo, your favorite.”

You held the toothbrush up for the camera, which would struggle to focus on it, making the black of your mom’s buttcrack go blurry for seconds, before auto-focusing on her ass again. The TV-You tried to fix it with movement as your classmates laughed.

“Big bum-bum” somebody yelled.

“Oh my god,” your teacher barely-said and, more, breathed out. “God damn. Uhhh. Perfect, just perfect.”

You looked back at the TV and you watched as your mom walked out of the washroom. Your teacher exhaled heartily as she walked. And then she was gone around the corner. You filmed her as she left and the hallway was empty. You panned the camera back to your toothbrush. The camera could finally focus on what you thought would be the magnus opus of your film. “And here’s Michael Angelo.” He was standing there on the neck of the toothbrush with his nun-chucks, twirling them. Your classmates were no longer laughing, though some stray giggles burned on like embers after a housefire, even while you waved the toothbrush around and made kung-fu noises with it, the moment you were most excited for.

TV-You left from out the bathroom and you pointed the camera into your mom’s room as she was ducked inside her nightstand’s bottom drawer, with her butt up in the air as trinkets slid audibly over the wood floor of the drawer. Your class was in an uproar again, and your teacher jumped out of his seat again. Noticing that you were startled, he reassured you again. “Great video. Great work.”

As TV-you walked down the hall and through the kitchen to your backdoor. Your teacher got up and shut off the video. You were shocked. You still had the tour of your mom’s garden and the gazebo to show off.

“Wow, great video,” he exclaimed, with the TV-static framing his head like a halo. He pulled the tape out of your camera. “I’m just going to take this and make a copy of it, okay?”

You didn’t know what to say.

“I’ll give it back when I’m done.”  His eyes were wide and wild.

You nodded.

“Big ole Bum-bum,” you heard the class clown say and the class laughed.

“Okay, you can sit down now. You guys be quiet for now, okay? I’ll be back in a minute.” And just before he disappeared into the hallway he looked back and said to you: “great video. Really good work.”

You went back to your desk, right in the middle of the sea of smiling and giggling faces. Sitting back down among them was surreal. Suddenly, 70 degrees to your right you heard “Big ole bum bum. Big. Big. Big!” and everyone around you started laughing as if they never stopped. You bit the insides of your cheeks to keep from smiling as you vibrated in your seat. Nobody had ever gotten a reaction like that for anything in your class. Nobody ever would. You were the king of the world in this moment. The king of the universe.


“Dude, why are we watching this?”

“Just give it a bit, it’s almost here.”

“That’s what you said 10 minutes ago.”


“We get it! You’re proud of your students. I was too in my first decade teaching, before I got sick of the little shits.”

“Oh, am I ever proud, just you watch and see why.”

“Come on! My wife’s making lasagna. I want to get home.”

“Your wife has nothing on this.”

“Is he your favorite student or something?”

“He is now.”

“Can you fast forward it?”

“Just wait one fucking second. It’s almost here.”

“Ugh…. Is that his mom singing?”

“It is.”

“My wife sings better.”

“I’ve seen your wife. No way she’s better than this.”

“Okay, I can deal with you wasting my time, but now you’re just being plain disrespectful. Don’t think because you’re younger than me I won’t-”

“Shut the fuck up!”

“No! Why don’t you shut the fuck up! I don’t appreciate being dragged here by you and I don’t appreci- ……..

……………..HOLY SHIT!”

“I told you.”

“… I never doubted you for a second.”

“Would you like a copy?”

“Yes. As a matter of fact, I would.”

“Just make sure your wife doesn’t see it.”

“Ah, fuck her. My wife can get fucked for all I care. Give that thing to papa.”


“Wow! A rainbow sticker! My little man.”

“Yeah! Nobody else got a rainbow sticker.”

“Wow! That must mean you did real good. Was it a test?”

“No, it was a movie!”

“A movie!?”


“Wow, my little Steven Spielberg. Did you use a camera?”


“And you filmed it with your little friends?”


“Oh? With who then?”

“Just me.”

“What did you film?”


“What!? Really? How come I didn’t know.”

“Because you weren’t looking, Mom.”

“We must have a really cool home if they gave you a rainbow sticker.”


“Did you show them your toys?”

“Yeah…. And my toothbrush!”

“Whoah. No wonder you got a rainbow sticker! Did you show them you kung-fu fighting? Hiya! waa!.”


“Like this? Pow! Hiya! Judo chop! Hey where are you going? Are you ticklish.”

“Stop! Stop! ha ha ha.”


“Do you know him?“

“Yeah, I went to grade-school with him.”

“He’s so weird.”

“Yeah, he’s a real freak.”

“He was walking by us in the hallway and Timothy pushed him into the radiator, hard, and he just went all red and walked away like nothing happened. He didn’t even make eye-contact.”

“Yup. You want to see something funny?”

“Don’t push him. I’m one more point away from being expelled.”

“I won’t. Hey! You! Yeah, yeah, you know who I’m talking to! Did he get red like that when Tim pushed him? Yeah, you! Where’s the tape! Where you going?! Tell your mom I said Hi!”

“Oh my god, what a pussy. What tape were you talking about? Was it anime porn or something?”

“No, I’ll tell you later.”

“Can we watch the tape? Or, do I even want to?”

“I wish we could. I don’t know if he has it anymore. And yes, you’d definitely want to.”


The camera was small. Much smaller than the bag you were carrying it in. You were going to add it to your collection of little cameras. Small and cheap. A brave new world you were living in. The whole set was less than 200 dollars total.  Everything is smaller and cheaper these days. On the bus you held your new goody close by as you played your Nintendo 64 emulator on your phone. You had just beaten the Forest Temple, but your mind was elsewhere. You had a herculean task ahead of you. And unless you had hopped onto the wrong bus, you were on a one-way track there.

You got off at the stop and walked in the direction you needed to go, as if you had no choice in the matter. In some ways, you didn’t. When you got to your mom’s place, you left your bag on the shelf as you greeted her. She stood up on her tippy-toes to give you a hug. “How are you, sweety?”

“Good, how are you, mom?”

“Good as always. How was work?”

“It’s good,” you said, somehow convincingly.

“Good. There’s nothing better than loving your job.”

“I agree.” You looked out into the living room as you leaned on the inside of the kitchen doorway. Everything was the same as it was last week. The same as last month. The same as last year. The same as it was 16 years ago. Only The Handmaiden’s Table was on the coffee table. “I’m just going to use the washroom.”

“Sure, sweety.”

You doubled back around to grab your bag.

You opened the bathroom door. Still the same as when you last stood with your arms in the vent, standing on the same chair that sat in front of the mirror now. You placed the bag on the sink and pulled out the box. “Eye Spy” it said on the shiny cardboard.

I got the vent. The phone charger cam is still here. My shaving pouch is still here and my pen camera is still… yeah, it’s still inside the pouch. And the camera in the floor vent is set up. I just activate that one by remote.

You opened up your box. You laid your finishing touch on your mom’s washroom, the same washroom you grew up with, by placing your new camera in your mom’s bath-scent bottle which sat at about waist level, at almost at the exact altitude you stood your tallest at when you stood there with your first camera 16 years ago.

You placed the rigged bottle back down on the edge of the Jacuzzi. You activated all the other cameras, manually or through remote, and you left the washroom of your youth, closing the door behind you.

“Would you like to stay and eat, sweety?”

“No thanks, mom. I have to go.”

“Oh come on. Just stay for a bit.”

“I’d love to, but I really have to go.”

“Oh, is it a hot date?” she asked slyly.

You just stood there, smiling.  Not lying to her directly, but making her think you really did have a date to look forward to.

“Have fun!” she said with a smile.

You left the house. When you looked back to get one last look at your mom, she was grabbing a towel from the closet.

As you waited for your bus, you thought about the only girl you ever had a chance with. The only one who could look past the stuttering and the blushing and shaking. The only one who knew there was more to you than met the eye.

As your bus pulled up and you were swallowed by its shade, your mom entered her bathroom.


You met this girl at work. She would always needle you in conversation and push and try to get you to give a little more of yourself than you were used to giving. She wanted to dig passed your surface. And it was uncomfortable and scary. But you liked it. For the first time in your life, somebody cared about you other than your mom.

And then one night, the night when you thought you’d finally get to experience your first kiss, if not more than that, you got drunk in the process of trying to kill the anxiety, and with inebriation came emotion and a naive gravitylessness, and you told her that the only moment in your life that you felt anything like you felt when you were around her was when you accidentally filmed your mom all those years ago and showed your whole class. You told her that you knew your teacher made copies and you knew he still had to have some, at least you hope he did, but you didn’t know where he was now. You told her that if you had that footage you would show it to the boss at work and every guy you hated, just to spite them. Just to say I know you think you’re better than me. I know you think you have me pegged down. You have no idea. No idea. You’d do it just to see the surprise on their faces.

After that, the energy in the room changed. And it never went back to where it was. She cut the night short, saying she had things to do the next morning. And then she stopped returning your calls. And she wasn’t there Monday morning. She had apparently transferred. She had been offered a transfer to a more convenient location months ago, but she stayed because of you.

And then she knew the real you, and she had no reason to stay any longer.


She was right. There really was more to you than met the eye. But she underestimated how much more it was. She took a gaze down your well and was shocked by what she found down there. Down where light can’t even reach when the sun hits it directly at no angle.

It was a well whose first shovel stroke happened on that day 16 years ago. Before then, you lived a completely dry life. No color, no electricity, no cool water. Just a patch of dirt. And then voila, with just one pan of a dusty AV-Room camera camera, you became somebody. Your mom’s ass was special. You got a nice big rainbow on your assignment that day. It was the only video the class wasn’t bored watching. The only one your teacher took to the AV room to copy. The only one he showed his friends. And judging by the way the teachers and janitor looked at your mom from every parent teacher then on, It was the only one he showed the whole school.


And after that, your peers would tell your story. And the teachers in the higher grades liked knowing you. Just the novelty of having you around, knowing that what you gave them by accident was a one in a million flash in a pan. Knowing you were your mom’s violating eye and loving you for it, just for a period of ten seconds. 9 seconds more than the necessary minimum. 9 and a half seconds if she and the camera were still. Just one still would be enough. But you gave them that ass in motion. That alone made your birth worth it to them. That alone made you a factor among your peers. You had no swing-set or utility belt. And when you got older, you would have no body anyone would want to cherish or appreciate for its own sake, by virtue of the fact that you were born the wrong sex for it. Your mom gave you nothing you could show off, materially or genetically, physically or psychically, except for what you accidentally caught within your borrowed lens’ confines. That was the only worthwhile thing you inherited. But it was worth more than the inheritance of princes.

Your mom’s ass was so fresh in those days. How you would love to see it. But it was gone. It slipped through your fingertips, just like all the good that came with it. Your mom’s ass was still there. Different, but there. But you eventually became too old to burst into your mom’s bathroom while she was undressed. And when you were young, you had no camera to fill the frame with her. You had missed your opportunity, and missed the joy that came with it. The only joy you ever had. The only moment of color in what was otherwise a gray life.


But you were returning the color to yourself now, the only way you knew how. You could feel it seeping in through some crack in existence itself. You sat on the bus with each bump and rattle manifest to your senses, and exciting and dear to you. The smell of fresh air and flowers and even exhaust wide in its appeal and nuance. You sat amongst other faces, dry wells or patches of dirt with not so much as a dent in them. None of them knew how deep down your well went. Or could hear your mom whistling down there in the dark, the cool waters halfway up her buttcrack.

They never knew about your former glory or how you were in the process of reclaiming it. How this bus ride, nothing but a teleportation from point A to point B for them, was your travels to providence and milk and honey. They never knew what your mom looked like naked, nor what she looked like to know that they should desire to see what she looks like naked. They didn’t know she was naked right at that moment, and she was being chiseled into stone tablets by digital hands for all history to marvel at and with.


They didn’t know about the only girl you ever loved or had a chance with and the boss you both hated and the joy you were going to feel when you showed your boss those tablets. The look on his face when he sees those stone tablets on his electronic tablet. They didn’t know that your mom’s ass was the type they saw on this bus, if they rode the bus every day, only twice a year, if that. They had no idea your well hid such treasures. They had no idea all they had to do was ask you and you’d gladly pull up the cool waters of that well and give them a fulfilling taste, any more than they knew that they could ask the woman beside them for the Rothschild fortune and she would give it to them. That was the sole sum of your worth. But what a large sum it was. And you knew it.

You knew just how much you were worth as long as your mom was still attractive, and now that your laptop was receiving multiple wi-fi transmissions saved to video, you’d always be worth what your mom’s nudity is worth now. You’d be worth everything.


And it was surprising how little your virginity bothered you under that light. It was surprising how little regret you had for that drunk night. She could leave you, but she could never stop you. She could never stop you from what you were doing now. Just like your boss could yell at you and make you work all the unpaid overtime in the world, and he could never stop you from showing him the videos of your mom’s naked body. Wait til he sees how deep your well goes.

You were invincible. Invincible like your mom’s beauty.  Like her ass. Why throw a ladder down to her when you could keep her down there forever? If you listen close, dip your head inside, you can hear her.

Raindrops are falling on my head
And just like the guy whose feet are too big for his bed
Nothing seems to fit
Those raindrops are falling on my head, they keep falling

So I just did me some talking to the sun
And I said I didn’t like the way he got things done
Sleeping on the job
Those raindrops are falling on my head, they keep fallin’

Because I’m free
Nothing’s worrying me


And nothing would disappear from the internet, which is where you would upload all your footage. You had to. And no censoring out your mom’s face. It wouldn’t be right. Why half-ass greatness, especially when it would take less effort to go the whole way?

You were coming up now to your stop. You had our arms crossed to stop your trembling, and you bit the insides of your cheeks to keep the corners of your mouth from lifting maniacally. That was the last thing everybody on the bus wanted to see. The one person on the planet smiling. Smiling as if he were the sync absorbing all the happiness they lacked, keeping it all for himself. No, you had plenty happiness to share around. If only you could approach them and show them. But social customs were weird. It would have to random strangers on the internet looking for it, and your boss who will just barely give you enough time of day to show him.

He’s seen your mom before, he only needs to see her walk into frame, fully clothed, which will happen the moment the cameras turn on (they’re motion sensitive), and he’s hooked for the rest of it. Especially when he sees the towel in her hand. And even with all your incompetence, you’ll be his number one employee.


And your mom will be his. His to enjoy. His to show off. His to show what a freak you are, and how happy he is for it. His to pause, fast-forward, and rewind, like his little toy. His to slow down, to capture every nuance of her that she coudln’t even know exists. Have a omniscience of her body she would never be capable of, existing within it and not without it. Within it in actuality, without it in thought. Which is the complete opposite of everybody else in the world.

And that was your well. That was you. Your inner-mind’s eye. Shaped like your mom. Glorious and beautiful like her. Preserved in amber like it through this video stream.

So thank your mom for your rainbow. Life just wouldn’t be the same without them.


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.


“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.


“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.



“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.”


“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.


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.”


“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.


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.

Fair and Square, Tan and Round

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.

Tears of a Clown

It had been the first time your mom had ever been sexually assaulted. Just a few days without your dad in town and she had been slapped on the ass nonchalantly at her second cousin’s wedding by a friend of the groom. Your grandpa was there to witness it, unfortunately for him. He got up to approach the man, stumbling there with a barely concealed rage, rattling like his cane on the smooth floor, only to be punched in the chin, before even opening up his mouth in protest, causing him to fall over backwards.

After that, the man pushed your mom over the snacks table and pulled her dress up over her waist with one hand and pulled her panties down with the other. Her bare ass, moderately lit by the dancehall lights, was out and bare for everyone to see. The men witnessing were either too afraid, or too horny, to step in to do anything about it. Either way, all of them, except for your grandpa, enjoyed seeing her this way, including your uncle’s best friend, the one who grew up with her.

He was horrified at what was happening to your mom, but at the same time, if he had the god-given power to turn back time, to warn your mom about what would happen so it wouldn’t, he wouldn’t use it. Even if he could keep that ass fresh in his mind after changing history, he wouldn’t want to rob the other men there, standing around with their jaws agape, of their everlasting memories of it. Such a nice, perfect ass. And on such a nice, perfect lady. It had to be exposed. Every red-blooded male knew that. All except the ones blinded by the impulse of familial blindness.

You were exempt from this impulse. And you just stood there and shook with pleasure, obscured by the darkness in the corner, as your mom’s ass wiggled impotently as she tried to escape her captor’s grasp. He gave her cheeks a few more slaps to assert his complete domination over her. Your grandpa watched on in horror.

You wouldn’t turn back time either.

A few days later, that very man was lounging alone in his bachelor pad. He was on his couch looking up at the ceiling jerking off his raging prick, thinking about what he did with the bride’s sister in that hotel room after he found her lying against the wall, mumbling gibberish in the hallway. Her pussy was so tight, likely due to her limited sexual experience. He had been exploring parts of her pussy that her only boyfriend would never be able to reach.

He would have been jerking off over your mom’s ass, and the fun he had exposing it, but he never got to fuck your mom. He got to feel that soft, warmth of her ass, but he never got to milk the joys of her pussy. If only it was her he found in that hallway, mumbling.

He was about to cum, when suddenly he heard a knock at the door. He got up and looked through his peep-hole. All he saw was balloon-shaped plaid object in the fish-eyed lens of the hole.

He opened the door to see you standing there with your mom over your shoulder, her ass up in the air. You were red in the face, but somehow pail-white too. “She’s totally out.” you said, sounding desperate. “Please, let me in.”

He just looked at you, stonefaced.

You grabbed the waist of her plaid skirt and lifted it up. Her panties were nowhere to be seen, and her big ass was out in the open, everywhere to be seen. Your face scrunched up as if you were fucking a pussy yourself and you said “Oh, please fuck her, please. Look at this asssss,” and you grabbed a cheek and pulled it, exposing her asshole to his face. You squeezed the butt cheek and gave it a hardy tug. “Look at it. Look at that ass!”

His remained stone-faced, but he stepped out of the way, signalling you to come in with a subtle vibe. You came in through the door and set your mom on his couch as if you owned the place. Once you had her out of your arms, you kicked off your pants and underwear, making sure to grab your phone. You sat your bare ass down on the ottoman, hard cock in one hand, phone in the other. “Okay, man, go. Go.”

His face was still as petrified in its resolve as a fossil, but after a few seconds, he began removing his pants without changing his facial expression one iota. His cock was huge. Bigger than you could imagine in your wettest of dreams.

You watched as he brought your mom over himself, his naked goodness. And then… he was inside her, inside her naked goodness.

Your mom’s insanely fat ass bounced up and down on his cock as he watched you tug on your dick, filming the gorgeousness that your life had become. Your dad was away on a business trip in hopes that it would be more money he could save to send you to college. As much as you appreciated him for that, you appreciated him even more for not being around.

As much as your mom and dad thought they were doing right by you with everything they did. The thing you really wanted from the both of them was so deep, so delightful, so sacred, that you couldn’t share it with them. And it was so simple. No hard-work, no trouble, no sacrifice of any long-lasting kind. No financial loss. Your mom already had her ass, she was given it for free by providence. All she had to do was let someone fuck it.

They would have overreacted if you told them that’s all you wanted, which was fine. They had a right to their fears and desires too. But just a little business trip and some space, and some blue velvet in your mom’s morning coffee, and everything was as good as new. A nice treat that benefited everyone involved. And those that were hurt, namely your mom and dad, were only hurt in terms of dignity and fidelity, two things you never held sacred to begin with. Two things that only existed as spice for the meal of this moment.

Months after this, the highlight of your life, when you went off to college, after waving goodbye to your dad and mom at the bus-stop, you withdrew form all classes, getting a partial refund for your trouble. You used that money to live in South America, where you’d live for the time-being, just until you found somewhere else to live more strange and remote. From there, within a wooden shack in the jungle, surrounded by indifferent foreign faces, you messaged everybody from home, showing them the footage of your mom being fucked.

You messaged your dad and said “don’t eat mom’s ass anymore, you don’t know where it’s been.” Then you messaged your mom and said “remember that crazy dream you told me about, the one where you had become a nun in the hills of Tibet? This is what was happening in the real world while you were having that dream.” Then, in a sentence you wrote in both e-mails you said, “Mom and dad, i’m proud to have you as my parents. If only because it led to a moment like this. I’m sad that I’ll never see you guys again. I’ll be thinking of you as I move from country to country. And I’ll be watching you mom as you get fucked in this video, every night. I’ll never get bored of it, as it’ll never tire of its nuances. Each time I watch it I’ll feel or realize something new. I’ll think of dad with each pump into mom’s ass. You’ve been the best parents a child could hope for. I love you guys. Goodbye.”

Your parents tried to contact you many times throughout the years since that day. No luck on their end. Then, one day, your dad died, and when your mom told you over e-mail, you told her you’d see her only if she filmed herself being fucked by your high school bully and sent the footage to you. She did as you said. Your high school bully had gained some weight and lost some hair since school. But he fucked like a champ. And your mom’s ass had lost none of its gummy goodness since the last time you saw it. You were happy to see that.

You thought these thing as you watched the footage in a bathhouse in Turkey. You loved your mom more than anything. But you didn’t answer back to her email. Instead you sent everybody back home the footage. Your mom had become a sad joke. A Pagliaci of sorts. A big-butted rodeo clown, a red target, big enough to spot from a mile, and fit for the horns of a raging bull. That was her legacy. That was how you remembered her now. You didn’t want to remember her any other way. Just her fat ass being pounded from behind by your worst enemy as she grit her teeth and bared it, all in hopes that she could see her one and only son again.

And that’s why you decided not to talk to her.

Your mom under any other context would only disappoint.

Get Loose


It had been the first vacation your mom had been on in years, and it was nice to see her letting her hair down for once. Well, that was sort of what she was doing. She kept one eye on her phone constantly, even while lounging by the ocean. It was starting to annoy you to see it. On top of that, whenever your dad and brother were gone, guys would approach your mom and begin hitting on her. Your mom would turn them down, gently as a diplomat, which was as gentle as you were used to seeing her do everything else. But something about her turning down these guys left a bad taste in your mouth.

Something about the way the light of her phone played off of her face every 30 seconds, and the way she would become lost in some stupid thought about things back home; it all got under your skin. You could see the tightness in her shoulders, wringing hands, and her ass cheeks. When you saw her pointing out your dad on the tennis court (losing a two-on-one game against a 6 foot 3 male model with your brother as his blushing partner) to men who had rascally intentions in mind as an explanation for why she couldn’t go with them, it was the straw that broke the camel’s back for you.

Vacation was the place where she was supposed to let down her hair and forget about everything going on back home. Her professional attire was off, and she was now in beach wear, but she just couldn’t shed her sense of responsibility or duty to your father and let a few guys have their harmless fun with her.

So the next day, you decided that while your brother and dad were out deep-sea diving (your mom wouldn’t go because she said it worried her too much), you and your mom would spend your time getting drunk at the resort’s open-air bar.

Getting her to tilt back those shots and down those beers was like trying to open a steel-reinforced trapdoor with a wooden crowbar. You tried to keep your cool, but at various points you almost snapped at her. But with each drink you did manage to get passed the gate of her lips, when she wasn’t busy mouthing her own thoughts silently as they tormented her chattering mind, each subsequent shot became easier. Until finally, she was showing signs of being drunk. You knew, not only because of her swaying back and forth in the booth, but because she hadn’t looked at her phone for 10 minutes straight. It had been years since she last went 10 minutes straight without checking her phone.

Suddenly, you two were approached by a tall, muscular man with 3 shots held in triangle formation by his brawny hands. It was the guy who beat your dad and brother at the tennis court just yesterday. You remember noting how handsome he was as his big, muscular arms pulsed as he swung his racket and propelled the ball over, around, or, most embarrassingly, underneath, your dad and brother. His golden head shone in the sun that day, just like his smile and fake humility. He asked how you two were doing. You answered that you were both fine, just relaxing and enjoying the day. He handed you your shots slowly and watched closely with the corner of his eyes for your mom to down hers.

He asked where your brother and dad were, and if you thought they’d like a rematch. You said that they were in the middle of the ocean. He laughed. You said “no, literally. They’re deep sea diving. They won’t be back til tonight.”

“Why didn’t you guys go?” he asked, and looked at your mom.

She just kind of sat there, looking down at the table.

You answered: “My mom’s afraid of the water. She’d probably be stressed out about the two of them now if she wasn’t so drunk. They’re the last thing on her mind.”

He looked over at her closely, smiling.

“Out of sight, out of mind,” you said, and you started laughing. “And I’m sure they’re the same. Even if they are thinking of her, they could never guess in a million years that she would be tipsy like this. She’s never been this drunk before. She was never much for parties, so she’s kind of a lightweight.”

The guy looked down at the table, trying to hide the subtle signs of maliciousness in his smile.

“Yeah, they won’t be here to see all the hi-jinx she’ll get into.”

The guy played with his hands, looked up at you, then back at your mom.

You said “I need to go to the washroom.” You looked at your mom. “It’s going to be a number two so I’ll be in there a while.” She wasn’t responding. It was clear she had no idea what was going on. You looked over at your table-guest. “Do you have 20 minutes?”

“Yeah, why?”

“That’s how long it usually takes me in there. Can you watch her til I come back? I’ve never seen her this drunk and I’m worried somebody might carry her off.” You laughed good-naturedly. Then you stopped and sighed. “I keep seeing guys staring at her butt and I’m afraid somebody might not realize she’s married and take advantage of her. She’s easy pickings right now.” You pointed at your mom’s drunk face. “Look. She’d be so easy to just carry off right now.” You looked up at him with concern, waiting for his answer. “I mean, it’ll just be 20 minutes, I swear,” and you put up your hands, accommodatingly.

He looked up at you wide-eyed. “I can do that.”

“Thank you so much,” you said. “I barely know my way around this place. If she went missing, I wouldn’t even know where to start looking.”

“No worries,” he said, fidgeting in his chair and biting the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning from ear to ear.

“And if she did go missing, there’s no way I’d tell my brother and dad about something happening to her.” You clasped your hands behind your head. “I couldn’t even tell the staff here because word might get back to my dad that some guy carried her off and I was looking for her. If it did happen, I would just keep my mouth shut, as bad as that sounds.” You looked down at the ground as if you were embarrassed by yourself.

“No, no, it’s understandable,” he said, as he rocked back and forth, pretending like he didn’t even notice who, or what, was sitting beside him and would be, unguarded, for the next 20 minutes.

You got up and said “thanks man, I owe you one,” and you went for the bathroom door. And as you did, the tension that comes from facade was unwound from both your and his face, while your mom’s face, devoid of all concern, stayed exactly the same. You opened the door to the bathroom, and went inside. You stood there for about 20 seconds, looking at yourself in the mirror with wide-eyes as you gripped onto the edge of the sink with both hands. Your stomach was alive with butterflies. “Please, please, please” you whispered to yourself, pleading with God-knows-who. You took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, then you turned around, walked towards the door, then pushed it open and looked up at the place where you and your mom were sitting across the floor.

It was empty.

Your mom’s phone on the table was the only artifact that attested to anyone sitting there at all. It was the first time she had been without her phone in arm’s reach for years.

You crossed the floor and grabbed your mom’s phone and you ran out of the hatched roof of the bar into the sunlight. You knew which building the guy was staying in because he had said to your dad and brother, in a mood of low-key arrogance, that if they would like a rematch, he would be around the area of the tennis courts because his room was nearby. You could take a shortcut through the foliage to that area and wait outside for him and your mom, and you can see which room he was in. Hopefully it was on the first floor.

You started sprinting.

As your arms hit the foliage, the thought hit you: what if he wasn’t taking her to his room. He could be going to the beach. It went all the way down the coast, completely off the premises of the resort if you went far enough. There’d be very few people there if any, and your mom, if you defined ‘there’ as including being aware of where you were, least of all.

You took a sharp turn mid-sprint, causing your arms to flail up in the air in the direction you were initially headed. You were now headed for the D to C road, through which, the detour down to the beach could be found. You felt like your heart was going to burst. Your lungs were on fire. But you couldn’t waste any time. You had to push through it. When you got to the road, your heart jumped out of your chest when you saw him running with your out-of-it mom in his massive arms right passed you. You ducked back into the bush quickly. There was no change in his pace or demeanour, meaning he hadn’t spotted you. You were still on that toilet, blissfully unaware, as far as he knew.

You followed them along through the brush, and you had to sprint width-wise through the path to the beach, which cut through your cover, as it was now becoming obvious, in him passing it, that he was taking her to his room, not the beach like you suspected. You followed him at a modest distance til he got to his building. You ducked under the sun shelter 2 seconds after he disappeared into its shade. You saw him scrambling for his key to Door 2. That was his room. He turned around to check for anybody. You ducked behind the wall. When the coast was seemingly clear, he opened his door and took your mom inside.

He was on the first floor, you thought, and smiled to yourself. Your ran around to the other side of the building. The balconies there, though hanging over a sharp incline, that if you fell down, you would end up only a little scuffled and sandy, lying on the beach, were accessible if you were careful. Though you didn’t want to waist any time or be spotted by the people staying in room 1 as you passed their window and balcony ledge. Luckily nobody was there, and their window had its curtain drawn.

You got to the room-2 balcony and the back door was already open. The curtains were blowing in. You peeked inside, apprehensively. They were in his living room. You ducked back out as quick as you ducked in. He was on top of her, kissing her bikini-clad ass. You peeked back in just as he slid off your mom’s bikini bottoms, exposing her big, fat, nude ass to his greedy sight. Up until then, only your dad, you and your brother, your mom’s female doctor, her friend she goes to the gym with, and her friend’s son had seen her bare-naked ass.

But you hadn’t seen it in years. Not since the last family vacation, when you, your mom, your brother, your mom’s friend, and her son had to use the same shower room because the line up was so big for the others and you couldn’t waste time, lest you be yelled at by ornery camp-goers who wanted to get in and out. You thought seeing your first naked woman, your mom’s friend, would have been the most exciting thing in the world. But really what had you going was seeing your mom’s friend’s son’s erection as he stole glances at your mom’s wet lower half. All three of you had erections in there.

You had thought that your brother had an erection seeing your mom’s friend’s wet, naked body. But a few days later, when your mom’s friend and her son had already left for home, you, your brother, and your mom were hanging out by the beach. When your brother looked over at the showers and saw a long line up, he insisted that the three of you should shower now. Your mom asked why, and he gave a vague answer about how you should shower before it gets dark.

Your mom said that the dark wasn’t a problem, “it’s not like they don’t have light in there, right?” But your brother kept giving vague answers for why you should shower then. You thought that he wanted to shower because of the chance that you’d all be forced into a room with another group of people, hopefully with some attractive mom there, and he’d be able to look at another naked female body. But when your mom suggested he go alone. That it was okay. He didn’t need us with him, your brother decided he didn’t want to.

That night, you, your brother, your mom, and your dad, who had just gotten back from fishing, all took a shower in the same room that you had last time. Your dad and mom were laughing and your dad even slapped your mom’s ass, making a big, wet, satisfying, smack. Your brother’s dick was flaccid. As was yours.

You always wanted to ask him if he got as turned on at that little creep staring at your mom’s bare ass as you did, but you could never muster the nerve.

The tennis champ marvelled at your mom’s ass. His reward for being good with his wrist. As far as he was concerned, the gods of tennis were rewarding him with the wife of the man he dominated on their court. A stellar performance deserves a stellar ass. He pulled down his swimming trunks and out came his cock. It was bigger than your dad’s. It was almost as hard as your’s was now. You lowered your trunks and began tugging on your’s as he pushed his cock into your mom and began pumping. First slowly, enjoying each millimetre of its warm embrace against the nerve endings of his hungry cock. Then faster as he picked up the pace, feeling out the territory that was now his to play in. Then fast as he knows all she’s worth internally, each nuance and detail insider her, and he’s going to collect the joy of what it feels like to do with her what God put him on this planet to do with so many other women.

His body pumped, a beautiful organic machine, into the beautiful organic machine of your mother. He was just as majestic now as he was on that tennis court. But your mom was something else now.

Suddenly, you felt a vibration in your left hand, startling you almost into making a noise and blowing your cover. It was your mom’s phone. A text from your dad was on its digital face. “How are you doing, honey?”

You looked up at your mom being pounded by a flesh-hammer. Her body being put to good use. Her body giving the pleasure it was designed to give to a man made from the same ether your dreams buzzed a beautiful frequency through. Her ass, the wonderful dream of so-many, so delicious they convinced themselves they couldn’t be remembering it right, being had by the man who won a contest, fair and square, for exclusive rights to it, no strings attached.

You opened up her phone quickly and texted your dad back, “Just relaxing. Finally getting into it. Sorry for being so uptight, babe.”

You watched your mom’s perfection mingle with his. It was like the end of the Twilight Zone episode, Eye of the Beholder, where the beautiful woman ended up with the beautiful man in a world where ugliness was the norm. Your mom’s glorious ass had been rescued from your dad’s meagre arms and his balding head. His barely-adequate dick was currently flaccid and shrivelled up in his wet swimming trunks while this beautiful, hard, thick cock pounded the ass that should have been out of your dad’s weight class, never mind hemisphere of the earth. The ass that made men cry. An ass made for royalty and demi-gods, not for the peasants working the field. An ass crafted personally by God himself and he spanked for good luck before sending her through a world with few things as beautiful in it. If he didn’t see this coming, he isn’t even a wise god, never mind an omniscient one. He was looking down at the light he brought into this world, and it was good.

Your mom’s phone vibrated again. “Don’t apologize,” your dad texted, “I’ll give you a good punishing tonight and we’ll be even.”

You texted back “:)” It wasn’t a lie. You really were smiling, but the makeshift emoji failed to capture the nuance in that smile, or that it wasn’t your mom’s face that was smiling. And the smile got bigger when you thought of something. You texted your dad again. “Actually, can we hold off for tonight? I’ve been using the waterslides and they already gave my ass a beating. I honestly don’t think you can compete.”

“Try me ;)” came back almost immediately, interrupting you from looking back up at the heaven before you.

In frustration, without thinking, you typed off quickly “No seriously. I’m here on vacation and i’m finally having fun. I’m not in the mood to fake another orgasm with you or to try to ignore my reflection in your sweaty scalp. Do some sit-ups first and maybe we can talk.” You hit send.

You looked back up at your mom’s ass being made whole for the first time in its existence. Like one side of a heart necklace that had only now found its counter-symmetrical half. The blonde demigod’s pelvis before you was meant to be seen pounding into an ass like this. It was like two odd numbers coming together to make a nice round even one. Two 33’s coming together to become one 66. Or two 333’s. Your mom’s drunk ass bouncing around was sexy, comical, cool, and, also, just a fact of life. A life you fit into perfectly like that gorgeous cock inside your mom’s pussy.

You opened up your mom’s snapchat and you began filming her with it. Her big ass was getting pounded in sideways by the man who made your dad and your brother into a living joke on that tennis court. You made sure to get the guy’s handsome face in the shot too with his gorgeous full head of blonde hair. You then attached the message “Finally able to relax. So satisfying.”

You hit send. Repercussions were the last thing on the frying egg that was your mind. Then you took another snap with your mom’s phone which said “I can finally feel the stress leaving my body. This is what it means to let loose.” Then another one: “I thought nothing could be better than sex with my husband. Boy, was I wrong. So satisfying.” You hit send again.

You were in a freefall, miles away from the jagged cliffs of consequence. A mind without worry was like a room without clutter or dust. Isn’t that what vacation was for? Your phone already started vibrating with messages from snapchat informing you when your mom’s video had been screen captured and by who. On top of that, you knew other people must have been using screen capture software that could capture the video without informing your mom’s snapchat account. She had friends, and coworkers, and her friend’s husbands on there. All of them following her in hopes that they’d get good shots of her, only to be disappointed again and again seeing her in her scrubs documenting boring, grey moments in her professional career and her taking static shots, informational rather than aesthetic, of nice buildings with historical significance. Now they were finally getting to see what they always wanted. If anything, they were seeing more than they ever thought they would ever need. But now that they knew it was an option, they knew they needed it, as the screen capture alert attested.

Your balls had tightened up nicely at the decadent leisure of it all and you came on the carpet in front of you as you watched your mom, free from all the goblins of worry, finally without a self-important care on her vacation. You were no longer horny, at least not for now, but you were still happy seeing your mom’s body, now devoid of any stress in her shoulders, her hands, or her ass cheeks, being ravaged by such a care-free, take life as it comes Adonis. The type of guy not afraid to throw caution to the wind and have some fun with a blackout drunk woman’s blackout drunk ass. Even his testicles slapped around freely without a cloud in their skies.

You were rock hard again. That didn’t take long.

Just thinking about the guys at your mom’s work seeing her like this was driving you crazy. Luckily, your dad didn’t have snapchat. Your brother did. But he left his phone back at the room. He would see this tonight. And he would know that you were the one who took the video and sent it out for the uninitiated world to see.

How would he react? Somewhere deep down in your heart of hearts, you knew, you always knew, that this was all he ever wanted. You would be his cock’s biggest hero for this. It would stand on end again, like it did that day in the shower. You were sure of it.

But what if it didn’t? What if you made a gross miscalculation? Or what if he’s changed since then? Or what if he didn’t want people he knew from every day life seeing his mom like this, only strangers who he would never see again and wouldn’t have to worry about them spreading the news? What if he wanted guys to see her naked, but he didn’t want people seeing her being fucked by a stranger? What if that guy in particular fucking her after embarrassing him on the court was too much for him to bear? What if? What if? What if?

Your mom’s ass rippled wonderfully with each pump in front of you. Your mom murmured sweet nonsense as her soulmate on top of her grunted grotesquely with sick pleasure. You tugged on your cock feverishly as if nothing else mattered in the world.

Who cares what your brother’s reaction was going to be. You were on vacation. Now wasn’t the time for worry. It was time to have fun.

The Greatest Joke the Devil ever Told

He was back again, the man of the hour, Tin-Man Tom, if he only had a brain. A brain that wasn’t scrambled that is. He had rocketed his way into e-fame when he suddenly showed up at the gym your mom goes to and began causing a scene, talking about the CIA and the Mantis-People of Alpha Centauri placing recording devices within the dumbbells and coating them with lead paint to make us prone to suggestions from the talking heads on the news.

One of the patrons in that gym, an entrepreneurial spirit of sorts, took out his phone and began recording the incident. People were frightened at first, but when it became clear that Tin-Man Tom meant no harm with his erratic gestures and loud screaming, they all just sort of watched. The one guy who had the foresight to film the moment stood behind the safety of his phone camera. When Tom was done rambling, he turned from his imagined flock, and stoically rushed to the front door, accidentally hooking his leg on a barbell and faceplanting violentally into the ground.

The giant gap in-between the grandiosity of his proclamations and the slapstick comedy of him smacking his face into the ground combined into a moment so hilarious that even those who were startled by his sudden appearance but 2 minutes earlier were laughing hysterically as they pointed at his prone form. The cameraman capturing this internet gold kept filming, even as Tin-Man Tom got up, brushed himself off, and walked out as if he didn’t just eat shit in front of a crowd of people.

The laughter went on for minutes. The video of the event was uploaded to Youtube, Facebook, and Instagram, and within 24 hours, each version of the video received millions of views. Tin-Man Tom had become a household name. Though it made no difference to him.

Your mom, having witnessed this event, felt bad for Tin-Man Tom. She was the only one who wasn’t laughing at him. “Nobody should have to become a living punchline,” she would say. But the world, being nothing like your mom, had no trouble extracting its expensive laughs at a homeless schizophrenic’s expense.

A week had passed by, and Tin-Man Tom was becoming old news fast. Already, a video of a man proposing to his wife with his grandmother’s priceless ring and tripping, dropping the ring off the side of the yacht they were standing on, had become the new thing to meme and laugh at. Tin-Man Tom had become as old hat as the cap he rocked on his unkempt head. Your mom was glad to see that. She had been deeply-wounded by stories of junior high kids skipping class to harass Tin-Man Tom and try to trip him on the sidewalk as one of their friends filmed it.

Luckily, everything had died down for him.

And it would have stayed that way, forgotten in a sea of E-clowns who no individual could remember every face of. Then one day, when your mom was at her gym doing rows on the bench, a familiar voice thundered over her shoulder. She looked over to see Tin-Man Tom standing there, looking over at his captive audience. Everybody in the building went for their phones to start filming. Your mom turned back around in disgust and continued with her rows, facing away from the circus behind her, making believe it didn’t exist, that the world was a much better place than it was.

Tin-Man Tom thundered on about the cathode rays from tube tv’s and the dome in the sky keeping God’s angels from visiting us. The crowd howled with each incoherent claim, one stacked on the other as if they added up to something, when in actuality, they were a jagged ball of contradictions. His self-importance and apocalyptic fury had been brought to a feverish pitch, no one could see him topping this peek as far as undeserved grandiosity went. If he just does one stupid sight-gag after finishing his monologuing, they thought, they’d all have a viral video on their hands. They were thirsty for Tim-Man Tom’s failure.

What they were asking for was to come their way soon. But not in the way they expected. Halfway through Tom’s speech about how Satan worked as a mail clerk, he suddenly froze with his eyes wide open. “DO YOU HEAR IT!?” He asked the grinning sea of faces that surrounded him. “IT’S A TYPE 7 SECRET SERVICE TRACKING BEACON!” he explained.

His body throttled forward, deep into the gym. Every person there rotated at waist level, trying to keep their phone on the digital gold they knew Tin-Man Tom was about to give them.

Tom power-walked with deliberate intensity, now by-passing every single person in that gym except for one. Your mom, ignoring the circus behind her, suddenly felt warm nubs press themselves in between the elastic waist of her tights and the upper portion of her ass.

The crowd of onlookers’ eyes went wide.

Your mom’s ass, pulled from its privacy, opened up like a fleshy flower in step with her startled fear-response. The image was reflected into the dozens of phones’ faces as if it was being seen through the eyes of a fly. Every last one of those phones was recording, and every single one of those phones’ owners had known just what they had caught on film. There was a gasp. Then silence. Then a single snicker, implaceable within the crowd.

Then, all at once, as if given permission, they began howling all together as one.

“IT’S IN HERE SOMEWHERE!!” Yelled Tin-Man Tom, “I JUST NEED TO FIND IT!!” He began pressing his finger into your mom’s ass. Your mom squeaked comically as she tried to get up and run away. As she did, her tights, still in Tin-Man Tom’s firm grip, pulled at her shins and she fell forward.

The crowd howled again, bending and twisting around machinery to try to get a better shot. “MA’AM, WAIT!” Tom tried to explain, “THEY PLACED AN EXALCATRATOR 2-10 IN YOUR BUTTHOLE!”

He kneeled down over her and began probing her asshole with his finger with his tongue hanging out the corner of his mouth as he looked off in the distance, trying to navigate your mom’s insides with his fingers. When he got in knuckle deep with his index finger and rotated it around a few times in a circulat motion, he realized he had made an egregious error.


He pulled his finger out of her ass and her butthole puckered as it left. Your mom’s eyes went wide. He jammed his index and middle finger up into her pussy. The crowd couldn’t take the pain anymore, they were trying to film while almost doubling over with laughter.

Your mom started to vibrate involuntary as his rough finger frantically searched inside her, occasionally rubbing against her clitoris as it did. When he couldn’t feel anything, he pulled out his fingers and wiped them off on your mom’s right butt cheek. He then lifted her ass up in the air so she was on her knees now, face to the ground, ass up in the air. He went in between her pussy lips with his thumbs and pulled them apart, then, closing one eye, he leaned in to look into your mom’s open pussy hole like it was a microscope.

The crowd couldn’t believe what they were witnessing, never mind what they were capturing for the posterity of others and for 15 minutes of fame for their social media accounts and channels.

Tom put your mom back down. He stood up. He looked around. That sense of passion and resolve was gone, leaving him with an uncharacteristic sobriety in his features. Your mom remained still, afraid to move, drawing his attention. He looked passed the crowd, who was watching on silently, and he looked toward the front door. He took a deep breath. He started for the door at a leisurely pace. Your mom took a barely audible sigh of relief. Suddenly, he stopped on a dime. His eyes went wide. She looked up from the ground at his back with her eyes as wide as his. Before it could even register in the human eye, he spun completely around and shot for your mom again.

No sound left your mom’s mouth, but her facial expression said everything.

“IT MUST BE IN YOUR MOUTH, MA’AM” he explained. Your mom tried to crawl away, but she couldn’t crawl faster than he could power walk. He caught up to her and plunged his fingers into her mouth. Her grimace at the taste of it excited the peanut gallery, who were in stitches yet again. He got so deep into the back of her throat that she almost gagged. He let her head drop down again and went to her ass cheeks to clean off his fingers again. This time clamping them in between her buttcheeks as he pressed them together, and pulling his hand out slowly, cleaning it with the friction of the two round mounds of flesh.

He stood up. “YOU ARE COMPLETELY CLEAR OF ALL ELECTRONICS, MA’AM! HAVE A NICE DAY!” was all he said before walking towards the front door. On his way out, he stopped inches before a barbell sitting in his way, and he gracefully stepped over it before continuing on outside and down the street.

All of the cameras, as well as the red-smiling faces of everyone who held them, were all pointed in her direction, waiting to see what she would do next. She stood up in a daze, and when she saw their eyes go wide, she looked down to see her naked pubes in full view of the audience. She turned around quickly to shield herself and pulled up her pants. When she got them all the way up the crowd began laughing harder.

She frantically felt behind her and was mortified when her finger met bare-flesh. She had ripped a hole in the butt of her pants when she tried to get away from Tin-Man Tom. Her ass was exposed. Not even trying to cover herself, afraid she’d do something else stupid in the process, she ran off towards the locker room when suddenly she felt a solid force at about thigh level. The top half of her body rocketed forward.

The onlookers broke into even more hysterics. She was leaning over a bench press with her face down and her naked ass bent-over up in the air, still vaguely wet with her own spit and pussy moisture. Her legs went bow-legged as she tried to get up. When she was upright, she walked off, causing her tights get caught within a crevice on the chair and rip off almost completely. Without running, afraid what she’d do next, she just walked off in shame as her hyenic tormentors roared behind her.

When she finally got to the locker room door, she threw it open, just happy to be done with it. As she stepped inside, she felt cold metal clamp against both sides of her ass. The door, being heavier than she had remembered, had swung closed on her ass, trapping it in between itself and the door frame. She heard the muted laughs behind her. She pushed the door back open meakly, and with her small window of freedom from obstacle, finally disappeared into the dark hallway leading to the locker room.

The devils on the floor left your mom alone in there to change and process what just happened, as the men couldn’t go into the girl’s locker room, and the women couldn’t go in their with their phones recording. More than that, everyone just wanted to upload what they caught to their various social media sites. They had been lucky enough, no reason to push their luck any further. They all stared down greedily at their phones and began clicking away in a race to get this moment viral first.

Within 12 hours, the most popular version of the video, the one that had been uploaded last ironically, had gotten over 20 million views on Youtube. Your mom had become international news. Within the next few days, thousands of reaction videos were made to Tin-Man Tom’s comeback video. But it wasn’t his video really. It wasn’t him the viewers around the world were laughing at. Your mom had become the new clown of the hour.

And the hours became days, and the days, weeks.

You knew it was bad when one night, you, your brother, and your mom were watching Conan 0’Brien. He was interviewing Chris Rock, and when Conan, after a particularly long break for laughter, asked him what’s worse than standing in the line at the DMV, Chris rocketed back “I rather stand in the only line at a packed DMV then have Tin-Man Tom go knuckle deep up my asshole!”

The crowd howled again, this time louder and for longer. So long that they then began clapping. “Shit!” Chris Rock said, as the laughter and clapping hands finally died down just enough for him to get a word-in edgewise. He put his tongue in the corner of his mouth with his eyes looking up to the left and he began swirling his finger around in an exaggerated circular motion as if he was searching for something in a tight hole. A woman in the crowd yipped like a hyena audibly over the amalgamated cacophony of laughs and indecipherable yelled statements.

Suddenly, a hyena stood in the Savannah and our mom sat there solemnly with her thumb on the channel down button. Your brother, who was seriously considering changing schools to escape the teasing, realized that there was no school he could go to now. You had realized that that would be the case days earlier when on a message board you would frequently visit you saw images taken from your mom’s instagram account before she deleted it (She had deleted it when she realized she had been tagged in a few of the videos of the incident.)

The images spread widely, but not thin, across the message board were of you, your brother, and mom together. You would always be the sons of Tracker Butt, the name the internet had given her. Always though? There was a short halflife on anything internet related. The images of your beautiful mother’s smooth ass being probed by a schizophrenic maniac had to get boring at some point. It was just a matter of when, you thought.

Your mom changed the channel to Saturday Night Live. Immediately special guest Robert Pattinson was teaching a room full of men and women to search a butthole for alien tracking devices using a life-sized dummy with a hole in its butt that looked like your mom. She quickly changed the channel again. Your brother picked up his phone, and, without warning, threw it at the television, leaving a spider web of cracked glass on both their glass screens. Your mom, just as suddenly, began to sob in her hands.

That night, you sat on your bed with your laptop open and jerked off to the viral video and all its comments underneath. You went to your favorite message board and started a thread about Tracker Butt just so you could see all the memes and jokes people had come up with. Your favorite was one of Tin-Man Tom and Tracker Butt getting married at a circus. Your mom’s butt was hanging out of a hole in her wedding dress and Tin-Man Tom had his finger up her ass knuckle deep. He was looking off to the side with his tongue in the corner of his mouth in concentration.

It was perfect.

When you finally nutted, it was explosive and satisfying like it had been, every single time, for the past few weeks. You turned over in bed, pleased with yourself and you fell into an especially satisfied sleep.

7 months later a big-budget Hollywood comedy starring Seth Green and Scarlett Johansson came out about the Tin-Man Tom and Tracker Butt incident. Your mom never made a dime from the movie, but Tin-Man Tom, having trademarked his nickname in the 80’s out of fear that the crab people living underground would steal his identity, became a millionaire.

Your mom was invited to the premier, but she declined to go. Not only did she not want to relive the incident as it happened on screen while the audience she sat amongst laughed at her, she also didn’t want to wear the assless dress they had made for her to walk up the red carpet in.

Your brother had developed a fear of telling people he was in med-school out of an expectation that they’d ask him if he was studying to become a proctologist. Your mom had to take a break from dating after she realized that every nice man she met all requested after a good amount of time dating her that she let them stick their fingers up her asshole and vagina.

Your brother couldn’t date anyone either. Every time he tried, he ended up finding out the girl was a nutcase obsessed with what happened to your mom. He’d find out when they asked him to shoved his finger up their ass because they heard beeping noises coming from up there.

And he couldn’t even distract himself with porn, as “the tracker searcher” had become a staple move in all porn videos, taking up a few minutes of each.

You were in your room alone as your 20 inch television played across from you. You weren’t watching it. Instead you were on your laptop. You could hear your brother arguing with a girl over the phone through your wall. “Because you’re crazy, that’s why! Hang up the phone! Stop calling me! I’m not doing it you crazy bitch! “

You could hear your mom down the hall in her room with the guy she had been seeing for the past 2 months. “What are you doing!? No! No! Not you too! Ow! Get out of there! No! Please! Uggghghggh!”

On your television Jimmy Kimmel was performing his monologue. “In yesterday’s news, Steven Spielberg announced that his classic film E.T. Extra Terrestrial would be re-released as originally shown in theaters. Yeah, that’s right. They’ll be removing all those extra scenes, but adding one more. One that really fleshes out the character.” He held up his lone index finger, “One where E.T. says ‘E.T. go home,’ and he shoves his finger up Dee Wallace’s butthole.” The crowd howled uncontrollably.

You had your headphones on as you watched a video on pornhub. It was Alexis Texas lying prone on the ground with Kieran Lee leaning over her perfect white body, pressing his index finger between her fat butt cheeks and into her asshole. You took your hand off your balls and started stroking your cock again. When Kieran pulled his finger out of Alexi’s ass, you went back to the earlier time code where he starts doing it again.

As you heard your mom’s bedroom door swing open and your brother say “Get out of my mom!” you felt your balls start to tighten up and you readied yourself for sweet release.

You heard your mom’s date say “mind your own fucking business” then the sound of rapid foot movement along the hardwood floor before the sound of wind being knocked out of someone’s lungs and a loud thud, and then a large object slamming into your side of the hallway.

Your mom started screaming “Nooo!” More feet across the hardwood, with less weight behind them. Then from the hallway: “What did you do!? Get up! Get up, sweety, please!”

“It was self-defense” her former prospect at love said. “Now since you’re laying down with him, let me just… ahhhh. Now where is that tracker?” he asked rhetorically as your mom sobbed into your brother’s shirt.

Your release had arrived, and, for the next few seconds, you were riding on a glorious cloud, one with the waves through your balls, pelvis and thighs as you bathed your soul in the joke your mom had become. The joke her life had added up to and she would never escape from.

“Ohhhhhh, gggoooddd!”

Orgasm, it was the greatest punchline of all.