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.

5-Hour Nick

You saw him standing across the crowded room with that signature red solo cup sitting firmly within his soft grip. The man, the myth, the legend. 5 Hour Nick. Famous for being able to get any woman to bare it all to him, and rub their bodies against his, within 300 minutes or less or your admiration/disgust/awe/jealousy refunded.

Your brother was one of the many who couldn’t stand him. He would claim that 5-Hour Nick was a sham, a fraud, a facade, a house of cards. That most of his perfume-scented conquests were forged, and he had only gotten lucky a few times at a few parts just like everybody else (everybody except for you). This was what your brother told you. And maybe part of you thought he was right. But then another part of you, perhaps the realist in you, felt like your brother was not only incorrect, but actively and knowingly lying when he said those things. Lying to himself most of all. I mean, why else did your brother decide to never bring his girlfriend to any of the school parties? Why was it only the church crowd he felt comfortable bringing her around to?

You could say that maybe those two friend groups, school and church, didn’t gel well, what with one being centered entirely around the worship of Jesus Christ, Our Lord and Savior, and the other being a schoolful of roughnecks from the bad part of town. Maybe your brother just didn’t want to bring his pious and sweet girlfriend around that energy. Maybe he was embarrassed by it? No, couldn’t be. She knew many of his friends, and they didn’t act differently around her, nor did he ever demand that of them. He’s even smoked weed with his friends while his girlfriend was in the car. You and her sat there awkwardly, sober as the day you were born, as your brother and his friends howled like 3 jackals at the most frustratingly mundane things.

And then there was that summer when 5-Hour Nick was vacationing in Italy. During that 2 month period, your brother made sure to bring his little blonde girlfriend to every house party held by any and everybody in your school whether low life or teacher’s pet. No, it was obvious what it was your brother was hiding from. He was hiding from the fact that he was hiding his GF. Hiding her from 5-Hour Nick.

The idea that even your brother was afraid of him, which he obviously was, gave his legend even more weight with you. It made it so delectably real. It wasn’t that you wanted to live through 5-Hour Nick. It was just that you wanted him to succeed. You wanted it to be true. You wanted to know that there was a master-key out there, it didn’t have to be you, in fact it was preferable if it wasn’t, as you wouldn’t even know what to do with all those women in your scrawny arms.

You kept looking over at him from across the party. He wasn’t even all that good looking. But still somehow you knew it was all true. It had to be. Or… maybe it was you who had been bitten by the spell of wishful thinking.

The tables had been turned and now it was your brother who was away in Rome for 3 weeks on a school related archaeological dig. And while your brother, normally acting in fear of 5-Hour Nick, relished and thrived in an environment without him, it was you who would relish and thrive in an environment without your brother. It was just you and your mom at home.

When you caught 5-Hour Nick with your eyes, standing alone for just a second of time, you shot across the party rapidly, meaning to catch him solo. But before you could get there, 2 more guys made it to him first. You stopped dead in your tracks. He noticed you as you did. He looked up at you, intrigued, then turned back to his friends and started talking.

He looked back up from time to time and you looked away quickly when he caught your gaze. You were petrified at the sight of his as if his eyes were the eyes of gorgon, his left eye Sodom, his right Gomorrah, and you were a pillar of salt in the wilderness frozen through the misfortune of looking back at him. Suddenly, the memory of your mom nude under that water fall, apparently alone but for your prying eyes. Clear water falling on the crest of her ass and her thighs as she wet her hair underneath it. You, at the thought of somebody seeing it, motioned toward the direction of your belt buckle, and as you did, the bush ruffling, and her eyes shooting up at you, causing you to turn to stone in the grasp of her big blue, round eyes.

She looked in your direction, and then, evidently not being able to make you out through the thick foliage, went back to enjoying the massaging fingers of the falls on her shoulders and breasts. Her feet splashed as they felt for her footing on the stone. When she got out she wrapped her towel around the goods. This was your signal to leave. You went back to the camp and got in the tent next to your sleeping brother. It didn’t take long after getting into your sleeping bag for you to remove your cock from your underwear. You massaged it thinking about somebody else being where you were in that moment, watching your mom, her body, in that state of blissful nudity. And you tugged on your cock as you did. Her side profile, the moment she heard something, with her breasts protruding proudly in front of her, and her ass behind, both far off from the baseline of her torso. Her face in your direction, as if she could see you, and her two big blue eyes.

Why didn’t anyone else deserve to see it?

Wrong question. Deserve wasn’t a lens that the universe decided through. It decided through Could.

You were about to blow as you imagined your 6 foot 5 gym teacher watching from your very spot, peering through those bushes as the woman who raised you was made clean by nature, her butt crack and her nipples visible to his prying eyes, much unlike any other day in his life.

Just before you could ruin your night by cumming into the free range of your sleeping bag, the tent door zipped open and you turned over quickly and shut your eyes. Your mom came in behind you in the dark. You slowly turned over just as she pulled her black underpants over her barely visible butt crack. She turned around, with her breasts swinging freely, but you turned away quickly, not determined to see if luck would be on your side two times that night.

You turned around again to see your mom conceal her golden body in her garrish purple sleeping bag. She turned around slowly, not trying to make too much noise as her nipples and butt cheeks disturbed her sleeping bag fabric. You could barely make out the shape of her ass through that purple material. Even still, it was enough to climax peacefully in the night to. But you didn’t want to have to sleep in your sticky mess all night. Her wet towel was outside, hanging above the grass on an invisible wire, absorbed with all her essence in the night air. A wolf howled somewhere. That very same night air that nipped at your mom’s soft extremities was the same one that legions of foul creatures stalked through. And as exciting as the thought of one of those creatures appearing from the shadows was, it was a letdown to know that if any came, none of them would come to ravage your mom.

Your cock rubbed against the blue fabric of your sleeping bag as you looked over at your brother, imagining a ghoulish beast gobbling him up in front of you. You smiled as your cock twitched, then the same creature grabbing hold of your squealing mom and dragging her out into the moonlight, where you could watch from the tent doorway, as it had its beastly ways with her. You looked at her ass through its purple cloak as she ruffled to get comfortable in there, and you imagined it, nude again, and up in the air, with her face to the ground, and the were-creature behind her, with his claw on her face, pressing its other side into the grass, and his pelvis up against the broad curve of her ass, each cheek splayed open, as he pumped away. You could see it all framed by the edges of her hanging towel.

Your hands were up over your bag, and when your mom wiggled herself again into her final resting position, her ass poked out and the purple material wrapped perfectly and tightly around it, as if a bubble was growing out the side of it, and you came without any help from your hands. Your teeth clamped down as you tried with all your might to keep silent through the wave after wave of pleasure. Finally, mercifully, the pleasure stopped. And the night was quiet.

You woke up in the morning with your brother by the river and your mom whistling as she made eggs over the fire. She was fully clothed in sharp contrast to last night. She looked over at you and smiled. “Breakfast is almost ready. Did you sleep good last night?”

5-Hour Nick looked up at you again and put his hand up sideways as if to say “what’s up?”

You thought about your mom’s eyes. You walked right up to him and his two friends looked at you strangely.

“Are you 5-Hour Nick?” you asked.

“Who’s asking?”

One of the two guys answered for you, telling him who your brother was. He looked at you as he did, making you feel uneasy.

“5-Hour Nick? Yeah, that’s me.”

You swallowed. “Does it really only take 5 hours?”

“No, it takes 6. Yes of course it takes 5. Hence the nickname, y’know?”

“Any woman?” you asked, almost afraid to.

His friend interrupted “yes! Any woman. Including-”

The other guy hit him, shutting him up. The butterflies, oh the butterflies inside you. These two had seen your mom before, you could be sure of that now. But the look on 5-Hour Nick’s face as he saw one friend hit the arm of the other showed you that he had never had the pleasure.

Within seconds, your best plan of action became apparent to you. Tell 5-Hour Nick that you’d like lessons in picking up women, watch all three of them smirk at you dismissively. Tell them that because your brother is gone for the months, and your brother always hated him, that he should use that opportunity to come to your place in the mean time and teach you the ropes. The one who almost mentioned your mom would smirk dismissively again, but before he could finish whatever mean remark he cooked up in his mind, the other one, being the smarter of the two, would last second have a visible epiphany and hit the other one in the arm again, causing 5-Hour Nick to look again perplexed at his two friends. And as you walked off, the smarter one would already be telling 5-Hour Nick all about your mom and just how delicious a dish she was. And he would be right in assuming that the deliciousness didn’t start at the neck up. You had seen that with your own two eyes.

5-Hour Nick would be coming to you then, as if it was you who had something to give. It would be the first time in your life that something like that happened. And you’d come up with a time and date, pretending your schedule is full, only to “make time for him” tomorrow afternoon. Then he’d come by and you’d introduce him to your mom. Then you’d see if he lived up to his namesake. Then you’d know whether or not magic really existed. The magic you’ve believed in within your heart of hearts ever since that moonlit night.

So that should be the plan. And if you had patience and skill and cunning and charisma, you’d do it and it would go off as you described to yourself without a hitch. And then you’d either know that magic exists, and you could die happy, or you could find out once and for all that it never did, and you won’t have to live your life wondering what if.

So that should be it. That’s the way it should be done.

Instead you blurted out “have you ever seen my mom?”

The dumb one: “I have” with a smile.

The smart one with a look of puzzlement.

5-Hour Nick: “No. What kind of question- is she here?”

You: “No.”

“Okay, what are you asking? I don’t get it.” he said, looking genuinely annoyed.

“I seen her,” said the dumb one again.

“What about her?” the smart one asks, the only one looking as intrigued as he should have been.

“I…. uh.” You froze suddenly. Your lips and tongue wouldn’t move and you felt dizzy standing there with the 3 sets of eyes on you, one set aroused, impish and confused, the other annoyed, bored and confused, and the third intrigued, hopeful and confused.

The smart one again: “What does your mom have to do with 5-Hour Nick.”

The fact that he said his full cognomen like that stirred up the embers in the pit of your soul.

“Do you want him to meet her?” He asked slowly. 5-Hour Nick looked over. The dumb friend looked over to, barely just understanding but not quite there yet.

You sheepishly nodded your head, afraid that it was about to fall off with each tilt.

He stopped to think about it. “Okay…… How long do you want him to meet her for?”

You tried to keep your face the same, terrified of overextending yourself, but inside you were rattling like a cage.

“1 Hour?” He suggested.

You couldn’t hide it. You smiled.

“2 Hours?”

The blood rushed to your face. 5-Hour Nick noticed

“3 Hours?” he said, and waited for a reply.

You stood there for a second and signalled higher with a thumbs up.

“4 Hours?” he suggested, now smiling from ear to ear. 5-Hour Nick looked over at him.

You exhaled involuntarily.

“…5 Hours?”

The soles of your feet and the palms of your hands were electric.

“6 Hours?”

You interjected, “But he only takes 5.”

He smiled. 5-Hour Nick looked at him and he looked back. He nodded his head. The dumb one, not so out of the loop now, grabbed his shoulder encouragingly. He looked over at you. “That’s right. It’ll only take 5,” he said and smiled.

Your lips were quivering, visibly, but you were too far into the realm of excitement to feel any embarrassment. “Come tomorrow. Please,” you said desperately. “I won’t be in your way.”

“That’s good,” he said, smirking.

“And my brother’s gone. He can’t stop you.”

“He never could have. The only thing that can stop me is not having 5 hours to spare.”

“He could have stopped me though,” you said, and smiled. “He can’t stop me now.”

The smart one interjected “Your brother likes to stop things, I noticed. He stops his girlfriend from coming to these parties because he’s afraid Nick’s going to take her for a spin. He thinks Nick’s in the business of fucking other guys’ girls. Your brother’s a faggot, dude.”

You smiled and looked down, not wanting to insult your brother. The image of your mom’s side profile under the waterfall flashed in front of you.

“So this is a good payback then, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” you said. You really did agree. Not that you wouldn’t have done this either way.

He pushed 5-Hour Nick’s shoulder, and 5-Hour Nick looked at him and smiled. He said, “You’re so lucky man. Can you text us tomorrow and tell us what happened?”

“Yeah, of course,” he said.

“Okay, what time tomorrow?” he asked you.


“Okay, so 6 tomorrow?” he closed his eyes in thought, “no, it takes time to fuc…. 8 tomorrow then? So you can go at it and hang out or whatever.”

“How about 7. It takes an hour after I stick it in, and I’m not sticking around long after that. I didn’t know that faggot even had a GF until you just said it. If he can’t show my any respect, his mom isn’t getting any either.”

“You mean she isn’t getting any after your balls are empty?” his friend clarified with a smirk.

“Yeah, after I empty them on her face,” he said and they all started laughing. You stood there, eyes wide in awe. You didn’t even know what to do with your arms, so you crossed them and they trembled against your ribs.

You left the house that night with 3 new number in your phone. You texted one of those numbers your home address along with some basic instructions as you walked through the early morning air. You felt alive for the first and only other time since that night by the waterfall. Your mom’s beautiful profile and her blue eyes, reflecting the giant full moon, as she looked over at you, scared to find something, even a hint, out in the dark green flashes, something out to get her, lurking in that darkness.

You held up your hand with your index finger sticking up. You mouthed out the numbers 2, 3, 4, 5, and 6 in sync with your fingers: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5.

When you got home, your mom was sleeping on the couch peacefully. You went to the kitchen to drink a glass of water. Your cock was hard against the sink as you gulped down the clear liquid. It was cool on your throat. The moonlit night air spilled in through the open window. You put the glass back down in the sink and you turned around and almost jumped out of your skin when you saw your mom standing there.

“Did you enjoy the party, sweety?”

“Yeah, mom,” you said. She had no idea.

“That’s good,” she said, and she yawned and stretched her limbs out, leaving her breasts to hang out covered in baby blue fabric. It was 11 hours til 1:00 noon. “By the way,” she said, near the end of her yawn, “do you want a cookie?”

“Sure, mom”

She leaned over the kitchen table to grab one from the tray under the cloth. Her ass, wrapped in pajamas, in full, sweet view.

10 hours, 59 minutes, and 50 seconds left, you thought as you scanned her baby blue ass. She looked back up at you with her blue eyes and handed you the cookie “here you go, sweety.”

“Thanks” you said as you looked down at her and took a bite.

“Anyways, I should go to bed. Sleeping on the couch is rough on me,” she said and she grabbed her lower back with an open palm and gave a look of subtle pain.

“Okay. Good night mom” you said.

“Goodnight, sweety,” she replied and you watched her baby blue ass as she left the kitchen and went down the hall.

As her bedroom door closed, you shot for your belt buckle, and you undid it, unzipped your pants and let your cock fall out. “Uhhhhh” your murmured. It had been pent up in there all night. The slight chill form that night blew in through the window. You stood in the white light of your kitchen and you massaged your cock and balls. 10 hours and 58 minutes left.

You twisted and turned in your bed all night until finally, at 6:00 AM, your eyes closed. They opened back up at 11:00 AM. You got up quickly, ate your mom’s breakfast, told her you were going out, then when she was in the washroom, you knocked on the door and told her you were leaving. You opened and shut the front door loudly, then snuck back into your room.

Your phone was fully charged so you could take a pictures. You wanted to send it to him so nobody could question his nickname ever again. You wanted to send it to him so he could send it to the guys and they could see her how you saw her that night. See her in an even more compromised state. She shut off the tap and came out the washroom.

Your mom went about her business as if she were alone in the house. 20 minutes later, the doorbell rang. Your mom’s feet click-clacked on the floor and then you heard the door open. And when you heard his voice, it sounded as sweet as honey to you. Your cock couldn’t believe you were hearing that voice under your roof. It was happy as you played with it.

“Hi” your mom exclaimed.

“Hi,” he answered.

There was a silence of a little over 2 seconds in length.

“I’m sorry, I’m not sure that I know who you are,” your mom explained.

He explained that he was your brother’s friend. “You must be his sister.”

“Oh, no. Wow. No. I’m his mother. Nice to meet you.”

“Ohhh. So you’re who he gets his big blue eyes from.”

“Yes, that would be me” she said and giggled.

“Don’t worry, they look much prettier on you,” he said and she started laughing, sounding flustered.

“So what brings you here then? You know he’s in Rome, right?”

“Yes I know.”

“Soooo?” your mom inquired.

“Well, I guess, both your sons have told me such great things about you so I wanted to talk to you myself.”

“Awwww. Really? That’s so heartwarming. But-”

“Yeah, and I just came to prove to myself that you’re not all that great.”

Your mom laughed. “Awwww. Wow. You’re funny.”

It got silent for a second. But it felt like a lot longer to you as you stood behind your bedroom door, pulling on your dick.

“How did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“That face you just made now.”

“What face.”

“You just gave this look and it looked like you were a movie star or something.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“I mean, when you were looking at me just now, you made this face and… it was weird.”


“Yeah. But I mean in a good way. It was…. just weird.”

“Well, I don’t know,” she said and laugh, “I’m not sure what-”

“Stop! There it is again. What is that?”

“What, what?”

“Oh, it’s gone.”

“Well, I don’t-”

“Man,” he said, “if only you could make that face all the time, you’d be famous.”

“Wow. I wish I knew what you meant.”

“I mean, you look good without it too, but with it you were a real stunner.”


“Yeah, ‘huh’ is right.”

There was another silence. Then your mom broke it with “would you like some cookies? I made some last night.”

“Yes, I’d love a good cookie. They said your cookies were the best too. So I have to try.”

The crunches were inaudible at your distance. “So… how is it?”

“….not good.”

“What!? Really?”

“Yeah,” he said, sounding genuinely disappointed, “it’s great,” he said non-chalantly.

“Oh!” she said and you could hear the limp thud of her hand against his shoulder.

“Hey, no violence.”

“Oh, stop it.”

“Geeze, they never told me about that part of you. No wonder they say such nice things about you all the time. They’re trying to stay on your good side.”

“Seriously, stop it! You-”


“Again what?”

“That face. It’s gone now. But you just did it there.”

“Ughhh,” your mom said, annoyed.

“Come here,” he said, “you have this nice big mirror here just for opportunities like this. Look.”

“Tell me when I make it.”

“I will, come here.”

There voices got lower, as if they were standing shoulder to shoulder. Or maybe… back to chest.

“Is this kind of like it?”

“No. That’s nothing like it. Don’t do that gain.”

She laughed. “Geeze.”

“Geeze is right. Concentrate.”

“I am. I-”


The silence was deafening.

And then loudly: “That’s the face!”

“What are you doing?”

“That was payback for hitting me in the arm.”

Your mom, almost firm, “Didn’t your mom ever teach you to keep your hands to yourself?”

“That face is gone. Yes she did, but every woman in my life has taught me the opposite. Now turn around.”

“Hey!” your mom shrieked.

“Now concentrate. We almost had it.”

“I don’t think-”

“Don’t think.”

“Hey! What are you doing!?”



“Shut up. Just keep yours eyes up and at the mirror.”


“Let go of them.”


“Just let go, eyes up.”


“Yeah, like that, like that. See? Nothing bad happens when your finger don’t get in the way like that. Keep them away. No! No!”


“Shhhhh. Shhhhh. I just want to see it without underwear. Just let me- Yeah, that’s a good girl.”

“What are you do-”

“You’re making the face again. Look back in the mirror. Don’t mind me down here. *smooch*

“Oh!” she started panting. “Stop…” she said breathily.

“You should have stopped me before I got down here. *smooch* Now I can’t stop. I need to see all of you.”

Your mom whimpered. As did you as you kept your ear and cock pressed against the door.

“Just step out- yeah like that. Goood giiirrll. Turn around. Yeah.”


“I want to kiss it.”


“Just the hair. Just a peck. *kiss* Good.”

Your mom whimpered uncontrollably.

“You’re making it again… That face. No, another face. A better one. I want to look at the rest of you now, but I can’t take my eyes off that face. Take off your shirt. Wait, wait, wait! Okay, go do it. I just didn’t want it to get in the way of that face. And look, you’re still making it on the other side. Now the bra. You don’t have to cover your face when you do that, thank god. Yeesss. Wow, they look just like he told me they would.”

There was a moment of silence.

“Because when he was a baby, he seen them. Get it?”

She started laughing limply, not because she didn’t find it funny, but because her laugh was drowned out by her ecstasy.

“I couldn’t even imagine this was what would happen today. But you’re just so beautiful, and you kept seducing me with that face. Here, pull down my pants and see how beautiful I think you are.”

Now you knew what desperate hands on zippers sounded like. You had heard your own desperate hands on your own burdensome zipper many times before, including just 10 minutes ago.

“You like it don’t you? Play with it. Yeah, like that. You’re making that face again, but at my cock. No, don’t look at me. Look back down. I like it. Look, he likes it. Let me take my pants off.”

His belt buckle made a clang as it hit the hardwood floor.

“Let’s take this to the couch.”

“Okay,” your mom whispered.

10 minutes passed, but it felt like forever. You slowly opened your door, sliding the bolt inch by inch, and then sliding the door open inch by inch on its creaky axis. You then inched closer toward the grown, as if you had reverted back to being a baby, and you crawled out into the hallway. You heard the subtle auditory indications of something gorgeous happening so close. Like the sound of water running through a treeline in the night. You slowly but surely pushed along the floor, remembering the moral of that story your mom read to you as a child: slow and steady wins the race. You were completely naked from the waist down and your hard cock slid across the hardwood.

It was just around the corner now. You pulled out your phone and turned on the camera.




You rounded the corner.

He sat on his bed and played with his cock. That lucky bastard, he thought. Not only are girls throwing themselves at him, but even their sons were doing it for them! He couldn’t stand hanging out with him. But once upon a time he thought that if he did, he could pick up on his sloppy seconds. He knew better now. The girls Nick got were always out of his league. But he couldn’t stand not seeing them. And plus, he knew that perks like the experience of seeing that last night, that red-faced jackass stammering his way through a request for Nick to have his devilish way with his mom. If he didn’t continue to hang out with Nick, he wouldn’t have those stories to tell. And he wouldn’t be lying on his bed today, watching the minute hand on the clock tick by so unbearably slow, waiting for the text.

It was 3:00 PM. 3 more hours to go, he thought. Suddenly his phone vibrated. He looked over to see he got a text with an image attached from Nick. He opened it up.

His jaw hit the floor.

He texted back “dude, it’s only been 2 hours.”

And back to him came “yeah, but I got her pants off in 10 minutes.”

“Dam, i always knew this bitch would look good fuckin how was she”

“She was great. He sent me the full video footage. Even when i came on her face. I told her she was making this movie star face and then i came on it and started laughing at her. You have to see it”


“No, Im all tuckered out from hammering her pussy.”


“Maybe the day after.”

“Why man why not tomorrow”

“Seems i have an engagement tomrrow. He invited me to a church party. And you know who will be there.”

“A church party? Your a christian now. Who?”

“His mom gave it up in 10. let’s see if his gf will give it up any quicker.”

“ha ha pretty soon we’ll be calling you 5-Minute Nick”

Your mom’s ass trembled in the air as she sobbed facedown into her throw-pillow. You filmed it feverishly only 10 feet away, as you pulled on your hungry cock, eager to capture as much of it as you could in digital immortality so you could send it to 5-Hour Nick in celebration of what he’s reduced her too. You pulled your cock up with your index and middle finger on your left hand and then let it go.

*Thud* against the kitchen floor.

Your mom’s head shot up, and she looked behind her.

You pulled back behind the doorway, struggling to not make a peep, even though the excitement and sudden rushing feeling of fear made you want to gasp. You looked straight ahead into the kitchen, terrified she would come in and see you there without your pants. You could imagine it vividly. Her bare footsteps on the hardwood and her coming around that corner completely nude and looking down at you in horror and disgust. Oh god, you were about to cum.

Luckily you didn’t cum. And even more lucky, she didn’t come. But something caught your eye. Something blue. You looked up into the black mirror of the microwave door and you saw her there, her fat ass still up in the air. And her face, twisted towards you on the swivel of her neck, tilted slightly to the right, peering into the dead kitchen. Her two big blue eyes wide with a look you couldn’t even describe. Beautiful beyond mere language. But instead of those two blue eyes swimming in a lake of white, her eyes were red with tears. And her usually pristine face was wet with cum.

She snorted suddenly and her ass jiggled as she did. She was beautiful.

You were lucky she didn’t look at that microwave door glass with any concentration. Otherwise she’d see you peering up at her. You slowly lifted your phone up, trying to make as little movement as possible, and you filmed that look. That beauty that had no name.

And suddenly, it transformed as her face scrunched up.

You froze.

And then the face taking its intended form welled up pathetically and she threw it into the pillow and continued sobbing. And you turned around to film her ass up in the air jiggling as she did. She had never been more beautiful. In this, her most private moment. And soon the whole world Could see it.

Magic was the right people at the right places at the right time. You believed in magic. You’d be an idiot not to.

Bluvelvet99: Best Stories of 2018 as voted on by you

So here it is. My list of the best stories I’ve written last year as voted on by all of you at home.

There were 47 voters in total.

Last year we had 59 people voting. Given that voting was opened up after the purge, I’d say those are great numbers, and an indication that we’ve been able to keep the large majority of the community in tact through what could have been a cataclysmic change. That’s a huge relief to me and I think it’s something worth celebrating.

So this year was interesting. The volume of my output was definitely a huge step up from the two previous years, and the overall quality of my stories was strong, with maybe only 2 or 3 entries I wasn’t too particularly proud of. But even those stories seem to be liked by you guys if I’m going by the number of votes they got.

The distribution of the votes this year leads me to believe that there were few far-and-away standouts among the herd. Unlike last year, where stories like Cheeks, Coming to America, and The Christmas Special 2 clearly came out as favourites. I think this makes sense, as I don’t think anything I did this year was up to the quality of those 3 stories, along with the less popular story from last year Smile, which is my personal favourite of anything I’ve ever written. Though a few stories this year really did come close, including one I would put in my personal top 10 or so, and which you guys seemed to enjoy quite a bit. But even with the tight scoring, I was able to see certain picks bubble up to the top slowly with each voter input.

A lot of the common themes of my work this year had to do with ideas like things being hidden suddenly coming to light, communities and/or unlikely allies working as one towards the fruition of this fetish, and the giant gap between the mediocre/mundane and the glorious/transcendental. 17 of the stories involved drugging. 10 stories involved consensual sex. And 2 of the stories stopped at voyeurism without sex.

There are about 8 stories this year that I’d put into my own personal top 50 list. About 1 I’d put into my top 10. And likely 4 that would make my top 25. My favorite stories were often at odds with what you guys seemed to like, but many of my favorites also received the highest share of your votes.

The one thing that I’ll be aiming for in future stories is to do more to flesh out the mom and bully characters. Looking back at my stories this year, only a few did this. And while I don’t think all my stories need this element, I feel like I should have made more in that vein this year than I did. Because of this, only about 3 stories had the grand and personal feel of stories in the past like Little Red Corvette and The Christmas Special part 1 and 2. To many readers, this is a good thing, as they like when the stories get to the point. But because I pride myself on the world’s and the nuanced emotional pallettes I’ve been able to create in the past, and I think they’re vital to the soul of my content, I’ll be trying to lean just a little more in that direction and make sure that at least 1 quarter of my output has that general feel in 2019.

But regardless. This past year has been a great one, and I’m really proud of what I’ve put out and happy to get all the messages I do from you guys about how much story x, y or z meant to you. Like I said, you guys keep reading then I’ll keep writing. So thanks everyone.

As for the order of the list, stories with more votes are higher than those with lower votes, obviously, but in the case of stories which tied with other, which accounts for most of the stories here, I put the ones with the lower notes(reblogs and likes) higher up on the list, under the logic that they had less readers overall, and therefore it’s more impressive that they got more votes given their limited reach or mass appeal.

Without further ado, I give you your list:


29) The Ties That Bind

Votes: 1
Percent: 2%

Coming in last is a nice little story about a family that’s pulled apart by the same thing that brought it into being in the first place, the mom’s ass. The cruelty against the dad, the brother, and even the mom in this one was severe, but given the glorious nature of the mom’s ass, all that cruelty seems justified. All my stories are about a mom’s body betraying her and the trustworthy nature of her family unit, but it’s the fact that the outcome of this one hinged on a chance witnessing of momentary nudity makes this one a little different. And just like the mom’s ass is exposed in the beginning, the depths of the sons soul are laid just as bare before the story reaches its final word.


28) Every Nook and Cranny Redux

Votes: 2
Percent: 4%

A remake of a story from my bronze period, this redux improves upon the original in every way. It’s a story about unemployment, a form of emasculation that’s seldom touched upon in stories of this kind, maybe because it’s the most prevalent form and it hits too close to home. The bully’s success in his profession, and his success in maintaining an access to women are inextricably linked with one another by their very nature. All of this was apparent in the original. But where this story improves upon it is by making the son’s failure to find employment and sexual satisfaction vivid. You can feel his insecurity over being a bum who still lives with his mom. Likewise, you get a much better idea of just who this bully is, and even more than that, just how much the mom in question loves her son. And while her son doesn’t succeed in the end through any traditional means, he somehow manages to find his peace in ways my readers are used to reading about.


27) Ink

Votes: 3
Percent: 6%

Everybody who has the pleasure to experience this fetish is intrigued by the idea of dangerous men. But some men are more dangerous than others. Some are so dangerous that they defy common experience. The bully in this story manages to put fear into the hearts of 3 adult males, leaving them without their masculine instinct to defend their mutual loved one. I don’t think I’ve ever written a story with this much hopelessness in it. And the lack of sunlight shining in through its cracks is contrasted beautifully by the proud upright position of the tattooed-stranger’s cock in the end. It’s a story about evil triumphing over the good in this world, and the exciting trouncing the mundane. Sometimes these two results are the same thing. And sometimes, it’s a mother of two’s mouth that is the battleground for these conflicts that are as eternal as time itself.


26) Wind and Sweat

Votes: 4
Percent: 6%

This one was just a fun, light addition from me. It’s a story about how we define ourselves differently once we leave the grasp of our family unit. It’s about the new families that we form for ourselves away from home. The son in this one leaves unsure of who he is, and comes back, to a house without a brother in it, ready to express what he’s found. What he’s found is himself. And no one can stop him now.


25) New Years Resolution

Votes: 4
Percent: 6%

Another one of my stories about making up for lost moments. This one has the distinction of also being about the hidden dark corners at the edges of jubilation. It’s about eschewing celebrating moments that are set out before you to celebrate by the cold and grey hands of convention and instead finding your own moments to count down to and to mark and measure your life with. When all’s said and done, that’s what this fetish is all about. Bucking tradition and celebrating while doing it.


24) One-Side Meeting (Remember Me?)

Votes: 4
Percent: 6%

Imagine the feeling that you’re on the cusp of achieving victory against a foe. The battle had already been won years earlier, but now you were just there to meet your opponent face-to-face and let him know, with nothing more than a grimace on your face, that you had beat him and you were aware of it. But what if there was more than met the eye, and you were just the last one to get that memo? What if you only won the battle, and he was the one who touched that mountain peak of victory and won the war and the wire never got back to you? What if his victory was of a sexual nature, the best kind, and your humiliation was of that same substance, the lowest you can be made by any humiliation? Well, this story allows you to live it, in case you were wondering what it felt like. Boy does it feel good.


23) A Harold Bernstein Production

Votes: 4
Percent: 6%

I don’t think I need to spell out to you guys what events in the newspapers this one was in reference to. And I think the message of the last year or two’s biggest news story was clear: No matter how far you’ve made it up that ladder, it’s never far enough to keep yourself from being bested. The reference to my classic story Cheeks that I included in this one was appropriate, I felt, as that story precluded these scandals in Hollywood and even predicted them in a way. Whether the mom in this one was the literal Cheeks, or whether the similarity in nickname was more of a reminder that their fates are intertwined and molded by the same forces, it doesn’t matter. What matters are the implications that it has on being the son of a beautiful mother, at home jerking off, as your mother is apparently out conquering the world.


22) A Spot in the Shade

Votes: 5
Percent: 11%

This one was just a nice, breezy one for me, as relaxed in its approach as the beach house it takes place in and behind. It’s a vacation from my usual soul-searching. Sometimes a big, fat ass just needs to get fucked. Sometimes a son just needs to imagine himself in a situation like this, and what it would feel like to not do anything to stop it. In spite of all of this, the story still somehow manages to be rich in character and distinct. Much of this has to do with the nature of Blondie Fesser’s ass. The actions of the sons in my stories always feel justified, but in this one, he comes across as just another face in the party, looking for his own way to have fun.


21) It Takes a Village II (The Stranger)

Votes: 5
Percent: 11%

The second in a trilogy. This one expands upon the conceit of the first one by making the title of the trilogy literal. While the mom in the first one has no quarter in the dark of the bar she finds herself being preyed on in. The mom here has no quarter anywhere. She lives in a small town with everyone she’s ever known, and ever single one of them is working against her. This ubiquitesness in the urge to see the mom get fucked by a strange man is more than just fantasy, it’s also a metaphor for our little fetish starting to hit it big in recent months, bringing even more into this worldwide community who may or may not have mom’s best interests in mind.


20) Lines and Curves

Votes: 5
Percent: 11%

And this one serves as another metaphor: the plotting for one’s mom to become an unsavoury character’s fuck doll becoming acceptable behavior to the good and genuine of this world. The figurehead for this being the teacher of course. He’s the one male figure in the son’s life not working towards ruining the son’s self-esteem and happiness. He’s a good person in every way, and I would say except for one, but his urge to see the recess monitor fuck the protagonist’s mom isn’t a blemish on his record, it’s a fetish that he’s entitled to, and it only makes him an even bigger ally to the son when all’s said and done.


19) Noon Tide

Votes: 5
Percent: 11%

I’m actually surprised by how relatively low this ended up on the list. Based on comments I received from many people, I was expecting this to be number 1. Either way, there really is nothing new about this one, at least plotwise. But what makes it so great is it’s sense of amoral heroism. It’s basically a remake of a classic of mine, Tomorrow the World, but it actively eschews the morals of the herd, and instead of settling into a nihilism birthed of indecision and weakness, finds a new moral code within the superstructure of personal strength and will to greatness. It needed a power-ass, like that of Jada Stevens, and it needed hapless foils, in the form of the mom’s 2 friends, in order to represent the lack of imagination and vision that’s commonplace within the general public, at least from the son’s point of view. The Noon Tide, a place of abrasive lighting and wild masculine energy, served as the manifestation of the son’s inner core, hidden by the veil of his meek, possibly pathetic, exterior.


18) I Spy With My Little Eye 2 (There’s No Place Like Home)

Votes: 5
Percent: 11%

This story, now that I think about it, is about globalization and rapid technological innovation. A globe-trotting mom who brings her body around to foreign locales that are in short supply of women who look quite like she does. It’s about the omniscient nature of the internet and the data contained therein. The internet almost makes the travel unnecessary, at least as far as the son’s wants are concerned. The reach of the mom’s body, as well as the depth to which she can be exposed in terms of state of dress, has only been multiplied infinite times by the nature of the modern world and its technology. This story is about the more organic and grassroots version of Big Brother that the mom in the first I Spy story was worried about. Now it’s not just the powers-that-be that can look into her most private moments, but the people of the world, including the most powerless, who are getting access to internet connections exponentially with each day that passes. In the first one the mom had to fear The Man, looking down at her naked body from above. In this one she has to fear the people watching her from underneath.


17) Flesh

Votes: 5
Percent: 11%

I was actually supposed to write this one last year, as a Christmas stocking stuffer that would be published at the exact same time as The Christmas Special 2. But I ran out of time. While this story is nowhere near the story that last year’s Christmas themed tale was, this one still has its unique charms. The psychology behind the colors actually holds true in real life. This worked well for me because I’ve always wanted to make a story about the nature of fashion and how it affects perception. And how the best-selected fashion ideally leads to nudity. I picked the best actress for the job of expressing these ideas. Ava Addams, whose body is so juicy and full that any minor change in its manner of dress is cataclysmic, and the transition from state of dress to state of undress, apocalyptic.


16) The Price of Fame

Votes: 6
Percent: 13%

An story I write where the son is in competition with his mom is going to be a good one. This one is about fame. As proven by thick instagram models, there’s no faster and easier track to fame than through a fat ass. Even talent can’t compare. Men who are rich and famous don’t even turn as many heads as a woman with a fat ass, regardless of her level of notoriety or fame. The son in this one, who is a nobody, let’s face it, lives under the same roof as the ass that can drive any man crazy and he knows its his chance at his own 15 minutes in the limelight. On top of all this, there’s an extra layer of meta-naughtiness included in this one One that I’m sure many long-time fans were excited to read.


15) Cut From the Same Cloth

Votes: 6
Percent: 13%

I haven’t been all too kind to the brother character whenever he’s included in one of my stories. This one was my apology for that. I decided to tell this tale of brotherly love and motherly sabotage through the medium of stage play, as I thought the snappy back and forth that served as a pressure cooker for the story’s mounting tension deserved its own space without being surrounded on all sides by flowery prose or a noisy internal monologue. And while I’ve never written a story that wasn’t a love letter to my mom, this is the one story I’ve written that I consider to be a testament to my brother. I think the most intriguing part of the story is how the bulk of the drama on stage ends up being as fake as a stage show itself. The one thing that’s real, which transcends the artificiality of the brothers’ conflict with each other, and of theatre itself, is their shared excitement at seeing their mom being fucked. And there’s nothing more wholesome and pure and real than that.


14) Finally

Votes: 6
Percent: 13%

Another simple one, halfway in between A Spot in the Shade and P.A.W.G. Tax. But in my opinion, not as good as either. I’m glad quite a few people liked it though. If anything, that’s evidence to me that I shouldn’t shy away from writing a story just because I can’t find anything new to write about. The starting image and the gif at the climax on this one are great. The two stories that this one was similar to I just mentioned both starred Blondie Fesser. The ass in this one is like Burger King to Fesser’s Upper Manhattan Gourmet restaurant, and that’s actually a good thing. Just like that fat, gorgeous ass, this story gets by on its lowest common denominator charms. It’s cruel, it’s demeaning, it’s hot, it’s objectifying, and it gives up the goods. What more do you need?


13) Consolation Prize

Votes: 6
Percent: 13%

My favorite aspect of this one is the torture the son puts the brother through. It’s that kind of delightful cruelty that I know fans of mine crave and expect from me. It’s one of my classic story-types, where a son is only a small handful of seemingly innocuous actions away from the everlasting-heaven/neverending-shame of having his mom be fucked. And like so many other stories, it uses the plot device of the brother being geographically removed from the proximity of the action by the flow of life, making him impotent in stopping it all, but in this day and age, not impotent in being made aware it’s about to happen.


12) It Takes a Village III (Conspiracy)

Votes: 6
Percent: 13%

The third in the Village trilogy and the most ambitious in its scope. What starts as a few incestuous threads of playful deceit and much-needed debauchery slowly blossoms into something much deeper. This is my Watergate era thriller where everyone is being watched, and nobody has the privacy or agency they believe they do. Nobody’s world is safe from being flipped upside down, and it becomes more glorious the more layers the reader peels through only to realize that the mom’s perfect white ass is the call and catalyst for all of it. If this story were published just 10 years ago, it would seem so unbelievable, but given the depths we’ve been exposed to regarding the realities of espionage between and within countries, as well as the depth of humanities’ strange sexual fantasies that my blog and others like it are a testament to, I’d say it’s naive to believe this story is anything but true to life.


11) Sundial

Votes: 7
Percent: 15%

I usually pride myself on my ability to be concise and direct with my themes and motifs, and though this story takes on a less polished tone in that regard, with it juggling such disparate concepts as the nature of time, the facade of the family unit, variation in female beauty and its effect on male psychology, the light of day as a revealer of hidden truths and intentions, and the draining nature of the work week on the magic of life; I still regard it as one of my best. The idea of the uncle fucking his brother’s wife as a replacement for his absence is biblical in its origin. But now that I think of it, so is light as a revealer. As is a break in the work week, concern over the corruption that comes as a result of beholding female beauty, and the finite nature of our time on this earth. Maybe that’s why it still manages to feel so cohesive even though on the surface these ideas bob in the water miles apart from one another. Maybe they’re all attached by strings to the same primordial truth deep down where the sea monsters eat. That would explain it, as well as why you guys seemed to like it as well as I did.


10) The Shape

Votes: 7
Percent: 15%

My best holiday themed story this year, not only in the sense of its overall quality, but also in its ability to capture the feel of the holiday it uses as its setting. I designed the story to taste like candy and I think I succeeded. It’s the first and only horror story I’ve written since Ghooossstts! The villain wears a featureless, vaguely humanoid mask as if he represents and evil that we’re supposed to project meaning onto. In the end it becomes clear why that is. When the big reveal happens at the end, it becomes obvious that we had nothing to fear. The Shape, as I called him, borrowing the name from the movie Halloween, is a character that exists in all my stories. He’s a force of nature rather than a man, driven by one desire that is perfectly pure in its form but is perceived as monstrous and inhuman by a world a that doesn’t understand it. That’s why I chose to give him the mask. Because the trick behind Halloween is making you irrationally fear what you rightly wouldn’t on the other 364 days of the year: Looking at yourself in the mirror.


9) Something New Under The Sun

Votes: 7
Percent: 15%

Sunlight again exposes a once hidden truth in this modern classic. But unlike the truth of the mom’s ass being what it is, the truth of what happened to the brother that night, and the son’s reaction to it, doesn’t get back to the mom in time. Sort of like a payback for all the years of deception the mom perpetrated by donning conservative clothing. And in the end, the son had one truth worth informing his brother about. And just as the mom’s ass is exposed, the son’s dark intentions, in part, are also made the point of mockery for a few girls who witness it through the antenna that was his erect cock poking into the wet fabric of his swimming trunks. Again, this one has biblical roots, with its title being a parody, and refutation, of the phrase “nothing new under the sun” from the book of Ecclesiastes. The sun being used for the metaphor as it’s the main source for heat and light in our galaxy. And nothing exposes the human body and soul more than heat and light. The bible also says, what was once hidden will one day be seen.


8) It Takes a Village

Votes: 8
Percent: 17%

The first in the Village Trilogy is definitely the best, and another one of my best stories. It’s completely devoid of flowery prose and it runs matter-of-factly through a wide cast of characters, all of whom are named and defined through their professions and/or actions. The mom is the only one who defies this. She’s named after her relation to her son and is defined by her limp inaction as a character. While the second Village is about a mom whose entire picture-book of loved ones works together to undermine her dignity, and the third Village is about interests below her level of awareness working together, though often under different flags, against her dignity, the first Village is the purest, in the sense that it’s the most modest in its expression of the trilogy’s general conceit. The mom is beautiful, sexy, vulnerable, alone, unconscious, and happens to be in a place where everybody except for one is working against her dignity. The sense of community feels pure and, in turn, the mom’s fate feels righteous.


7) Gingerbread Mom

Votes: 8
Percent: 17%

Another one of my harder edged stories. A villain who feels evil rather than just garden-variety mean? Check. An early tone-setting threat towards the mom by the villain? Check. A father character who has something he’s done to the villain, involving a protocol breaking moral decision, to feel guilty about? Check. A mom who’s sexy enough that her being had by the villain would feel tragic? Check. A cold grungy location where the villain can take that mom in the end? Check. Happy readers? Check. The popularity of stories as mean as this is exactly why I love my fans so much. They have impeccable taste.


6) Winning the Motherload

Votes: 8
Percent: 17%

Speaking of impeccable taste, the opportunity to watch a white woman service a black man’s asshole with her tongue is the best reason to pay for an internet connection. The average black man in as recent as the 1960’s would be blown away if he could see what white women do for black men on videos intended for mass consumption. It would make his suffering seem small in that moment, knowing it would all lead to something like this only 60 years later. And even more than that, imagine the tears of joy he’d cry when he’d see a story like this so high up on my list, knowing that young white men were all jerking off to a story about their mom being made to eat out a black man’s ass. But that’s just the video. This story itself has the same sense of retribution and redemption as what I just described above in it. It’s about making up for past injustices. And isn’t that what this fetish is ultimately? Payback against society for allowing us to be bullied.


5) 2 Ass Cheeks Name (Pride) and ( Joy )

Votes: 8
Percent: 17%

I’m surprised to see this one so high on the list. To be honest, I almost wrote it as a throwaway, something to just please the fans in the long stretch between two better stories. But should I be surprised that it’s so high? Maybe it’s the idea of the father of a beautiful young woman excited to share her for somebody who he knows doesn’t deserve her. That’s almost certainly it. And why shouldn’t it be? One day, out of those of us who manage to somehow pull it together and have offspring, some will have daughters of their own, who, when they come of age, we’ll fantasize, or even work towards, them being fucked by the worst of the worst. If we’re into this mom/bully fetish, it only follows we’ll be into a bully/daughter fetish one day. In that way, one is influencing and becoming the genesis for the other. And it’s that sense of the inter-generational passing on of this delightful proclivity that’s so well-represented by the son watching his grandfather’s tapes and becoming aware of his secret wishes, and doing his best to carry his grandfather’s torch into the future.


4) Ignorance is Bliss

Votes: 8
Percent: 17%

“Your mom was never the most attractive girl” isn’t the way I usually start my stories. But in this one, it added to the sense of indignity. Of course, her face was beautiful to the dad character,“but she definitely had the most legendary ass” not just to the dad, but also to everyone else’s eyes, including those who didn’t appreciate her for any other reason. Not one. The conniving and ruthlessly mean lies told to the girl with the okay face, the below average cunning, but the spectacular ass are truly delicious. Ignorance is bliss to the bulk of humanity who don’t even know this fetish exist, never mind can conceive of what it’s like to feel these beautiful things, but to those of us who sip from this gourd, discovery is truly blissful, at least when it’s discovering the absolutely meanness of the universe as it perfectly slides it’s eager and aching cock inside our moms as their fat asses ride above.


3) The Rights of Mom

Votes: 8
Percent: 17%

While I personally remain unimpressed with this one as a story, it’s popularity with you guys is nothing less than inspiring to me. Though it shouldn’t surprise me considering how many fans of mine turned out to be INTP’s according to my Myers-Briggs poll. I was afraid to write this one, fearing that in coming up with counter arguments against the son’s thesis I’d discover one that would shut him down in his tracks. But as I kept writing, I never did. No matter how well I argued for the opposition, the son always came out on top. The son in this was the Socrates to my Plato, and he was able to hold his own in the debate, not through any trickery of mine as a writer, but through the dictates of cold, hard, logic. The only thing that beats him in the end is a final emotional argument of seeing what he’s wanted finally coming true face to face. Which, don’t get me wrong, is completely valid, without a doubt, and probably for good reason. But I think the popularity of this story shows that many of my fans crave for these ideas to be explored and made sense of. And that’s important, especially considering that this fetish is only getting bigger by the day.


2) P.S. (Rabbit & Scout)

Votes: 9
Percent: 19%

I am so glad to see this as high as it is. This is my favorite from the year. It’s story was one of my most creative, and it dug deep into the nature of the mother-father-son relationship and its nuances. I still remember getting chocked up as I wrote the first letter from the dad. I almost cried. And I remember the feverish glee I felt as I wrote the second letter. I almost came. It’s this 1-2 punch of deep emotions and traditional obligations and morality followed by beautiful subversive debauchery and wrongness that separates my stories from the rest of the mom-bully output out there. Like I said, all my stories are expressions of my love towards my mom, Cut From the Same Cloth, was the same but towards my brother as well, and this is the same but towards my dad, who I hardly knew, or at least to how I imagine he was like. And just like the son in this story, I use my dad’s ghost towards my own end: the growth and cultivation of this beautiful community. He’s a ghost whose voice I use in my stories, whether or not he even has a line of dialogue. I use it because I want to see his wife being fucked without him being here to do anything about it. I use his memory because it’s just another artillery piece in my arsenal. And that’s something I’m truly thankful to him for. His wife’s ass is far from safe with me down here. Bye dad. I love you. I’ll make sure to “take care” of mom for you (I almost cried and came at the same time while writing this)


1) P.A.W.G. Tax

Votes: 10
Percent: 21%

And coming in at number 1 with the most votes of all my stories this year is this delightful little tale. I’m not surprised, as I’ve gotten so many positive messages about this one that I would be shocked if it weren’t in the top 3. But why is it so loved? I think the keyword here is righteous. P.A.W.G. Tax, the name itself, implies that something is owed. Something is being made up for. And it’s this sense that the story conveys, that the son has the right to the fate of his mom’s body, that makes it so enticing and sexually liberating. This year we’ve seen the biggest expansion in popularity for this fetish since I started my blog. I don’t think it’s a coincidence then that my most popular story this year has a moment where the mom ends up being awake for something she wasn’t supposed to see, and she runs away from it in vain, because by the time she knows something is happening, it was already too late. This is how the world outside of the mom/bully fetish is reacting to the fetish as we speak. Society can try to run from it, but it’s already too late. And now it’s paying its tax for all the years we were shoved into lockers and tripped in the hallways. In at least a few thousand households worldwide, sons are lying to their moms in multiple languages as we speak, working their hardest to get them to let their guard down with a man they know isn’t right for her. Putting all they can into impressing her with a fake version of who he is. And the number is growing, and will only grow higher. And thousands of moms will become hundreds of thousands. Then millions. And a large fraction of all those attempts will be successful. And those of us who are hip, whether trying or successful, won’t be able to spot each other on the streets, though guesses can be made, but when online, the times it happened, and the times to come: her being wonderfully reamed by the men we hate most.

“Sorry, mom”

The story also addresses the growing influence of African American culture and its tastes. White women are now being held to the standard of much more shapely African American women. A white woman with a phat ass is not only quite the catch, but is now a symbol to be objectified the way you would expect from a rap music video and song. The commodification of the female lower-half, especially of white females, is something to be celebrated, and for those of us who have moms with especially prominent back sides, we can’t help but be grateful for where our culture is going, with or without our mom’s input. It’s no coincidence that the bully of the story is a black man. It’s the symbolization of it all coming full circle.


Okay guys, so that was my list. Feel free to comment about the order of the list, anything you were surprised by, or any of my thoughts about the stories and their placement. At the end of 2019, there’ll be another poll just like this one, but with a whole new set of stories for you guys to deliberate on.

If anybody is interested in what my favorite stories were this year, here’s my top 10 list:

  1. P.S. Rabbit and Scout
  2. Noon Tide
  3. Sundial
  4. The Shape
  5. It Takes a Village
  6. Cut From the Same Cloth
  7. Gingerbread Mom
  8. Every Nook and Cranny Redux
  9. Flesh
  10. A Place in the Sun

Thanks for voting guys, and I’ll see you soon with a new story.