A Good Ass is Hard to Find

The old man pulled over to the side of the highway. His car was in park. He looked to the figure, made hazy by the midday heat, moving toward his car, its indistinct shape framed, and the faded blue horizon with it, by the passenger seat window,

Some kind of government worker, he thought, assuming it on account of the figure’s orange jump suit.

The figure leaned down, close enough now to have a face, smiling in through the window. His grin wide, his teeth strangely perfect. “Headed to Jackson?” he asked, almost as if it were a dare.

The old man meant to say no, but his throat was as dry as the landscape. He brought his fist to his lips to clear it, but he shook his head instead.

“You going about that way anyway?”

The old man lifted his hand, as if to speak, but nodding at still realizing nothing would come out.

The passenger door swung open, and the strange figure, leaning back with exaggeration, stood there, framed within the door with something reflecting sunlight in his hand. “Good,” he said, still smiling, his teeth still perfect. “Wouldn’t want to be too much of a burden.” There was a clicking noise.

That was when the old man realized what the figure held. Shining by it, clamped to his wrist, was a scuffed handcuff. It had a few links, barely any, hanging from it, the last in the chain mangled by a gunshot. Because of it, the gun, a silver revolver mirroring daylight, had only five shots left.

“So,” he said to the old man. “What’ll it be, old timer? Continue the way you was going, just with me here in this seat to give you company?” He tapped the empty seat with his free hand. “Or, you forget your hospitality, and I forget my civility, and you lie here, baking on the roadside ‘til the coyotes smell you?” He said coyotes as if it were a two-syllable world. “They’s a hungry bunch. Speaking of…” he smiled yet again. “Have anything to eat?”

---

The plate clanked as your mom laid it on the table. “There you go,” she said. “Just promise me you’ll be enjoying that.”

“Promise I will,” the trucker said. “I ain’t had a bite all day.” He tucked the napkin into his shirt. “Not even most of the last day.”

Your mom stood there, smiling warmly to hide her anxiousness. The phone rang. “Well enjoy,” she said. She turned and went toward the counter, the phone ringing again. “Make sure you eat plenty ‘nuff for tomorrow too.”

The trucker laughed. “I will. I will,” he said, just as she picked up the phone.

“Heidi’s Diner, what’ll be sweetheart?”

“I’ll have a piece of that sweet, sweet, apple pie you have hiding in that…”

She slammed the receiver shut.

“One of them again,” the girl on the stool asked. She was looking down at the paper.

“One of them,” your mom said dryly. She moved down the length of the counter, heading to the table in the corner, already being late to welcoming the man and the little girl sitting there. “Oh, will you look at this pretty thing,” your mom said, rounding the blonde head of the girl. “Blonde an e’erthing.”

The man smiled. He turned and leaned forward. “Hear that, Bobbie? The nice lady thinks you’s as pretty as we do.”

“I do.”

“We wasn’t lying, your mother and I.”

The little girl squirmed in her seat, uncomfortably.

“So,” your mom asked. “Let’s start with the drinks then. What’ll it be?”

---

The old man sat there, clutching his steering wheel silently. His car was parked. He turned to look to the side of the road, seeing the convict kneeling there by the waterspout, framed within the open passenger side door, aiming his pistol indistinctly back at the car, daring the old man to drive off. The convict had thrust his face toward the spout, sucking back water and whatever air he could get between laps. He came back up, his pistol dropping to his side, water dribbling from the edges of his mouth. “My lord, water’s’s good as gold when you’ve had none for a spell.” He turned and walked leisurely, with unconscious swagger, toward the car. “They always keep us full of it in the can. Probably think we’ll be too full up in the bladder to try and ‘scape then. That’s my theory anyways.”

He fell into the passenger seat as if it were his to fall into, and he shut the door with a gingerliness which implied respect for it. “Water and bread. Bread and water. Make us too bloated too, I guess.  Best we can do then is roll out of there. But it’ll make a mighty big target for the tower riflemen.”

He turned to look at the old man with a smile.

The old man turned away quickly, looking at the road. “Well,” the convict said. “We just gonna sit here, or you gonna— we outta gas?” The old man could see the barrel of the convict’s gun dance in his peripheral. It poked at the gas gauge. “Not ‘nless it’s broken. Let’s mosey.”

The old man put the car into drive and stepped on the accelerator.

There was a silence for a bit, a few miles, something he was fine with.

Then the convict, scratching his head with the gun barrel, said “need something to eat. Otherwise’ll pass out, and then you’ll drive me right back to the county.” He laughed with his white teeth. “Like putting a baby to bed, it’ll be.” His laughed only gained. “Imagine that. Either that or you leave me out here to boil in the sun.”

There was more silence. Now for a mile.

The convict suddenly turned in his seat, startling the man, almost bringing a gasp from his throat.

The convict was looking into the back seat with something on his mind. He turned and looked at the side of the old man’s face. “Any clothes you reckon’ll fit me in that suitcase there?”

The old man, wanting to talk, not finding the strength, trembled, and then realizing he had to say something, nodded.

The convict regarded it with wide eyes, then he turned back and reached into the back seat for the suitcase. “I knew I’d be lucky today when I saw those keys on the ground.” He clicked open the case and looked inside. “Ole’ Barry, the bully ‘et watches our cell block, must’ve been drinking hard previous night, as he ain’t been that off the ball since his mama died.” He pulled out a shirt. “Yessir,” he said, setting the shirt down and pulling his jumpsuit top over his head. “Luck. My ship of it’s come in, by golly.” He pulled the open shirt around his neck, then proceeded to pull it down over his arms and torso. “Lord knows I deserved it. Eight such years in the sex offender wing, with those degenerates, lord knows I could use a break.”

The old man swallowed, audibly.

The convict looked up at him suddenly, his eyes wide. If the old man would have turned to look at him then, he might have fainted just from the look in the convict’s carnivorous gaze.

Then the expressionless intensity broke, and the convict’s face was overtaken with his smile. “It’s funny. Eight years in there and you have no idea the things that’d get you going. Take your swallowing for instance. Back in there, a man swallow, and all us boys be salivating to see it. Specially it’s a young man.”

The old man was perfectly still, except for the motion it took to keep the car on the road. His face had gone white.

The convict stared at him for a bit. Too long. Then he leaned back suddenly and looked out the window, his finger on his lips. “But I don’t have to stoop to that no more,” he said.

The old man felt a relief, a great dropping of weight, at hearing it.

“No, no. Now I’m on the outside.” He was silent for a moment, just watching the yellow landscape. “No, something tells me my luck today’s just beginning.” He laughed.

The old man looked to him, only seeing the back of his matted head.

“Yessiree,” he said. “Just beginning…” He then turned back, looked at the old man, then back at the road. “But for old time’s sake. I do it how I always did. You know what that means?”

The old man said nothing.

He smiled. “That means we eat first.”

---

“No, no,” your mom said. “I can make it. Cook’s gone. He called in sick. But I can flip the patties just as well as anyone.”

The man didn’t trust her, but he had an overwhelming sense, from the look of her, that he needed to say he did. “If you will then, mind keeping ‘em hot for a bit. I rather they overcook than undercook.”

“That’s fine,” she said, lifting her pad to the nearly-spent tip of her pen.

“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” he said. She must have winced at some point, as he said it as if it were an apology. “Just that I see you’re busy. I wouldn’t trust myself to do it right if I was as busy as you are.”

“It’s no problem,” your mom said. “I know what y’mean. I’ll cook it right regardless.” She turned to walk off, but she turned to smile as she did. “But if it’s a question of piece of mind, overcook it it is.”

He smiled back, warmly, but when she turned around, his gaze immediately snapped down to her gigantic backside. My god, he thought. They just make ‘em different in Mississippi, don’t they? Girls in Alabama were nothing like this. He would have noticed long ago if they were. If they were, he never would have left.

Your mom’s lower half disappeared beyond the counter, and she mumbled to herself as she moved: “If I’m to be waitress and cook today, might as well be paying me twice.”

The phone rang, and she picked it up with her left hand, her left foot stuck in place while the rest of her, slow to get the message, dragged her forward an extra inch. “Heidi’s. What’t’ll be?”

“I wanna a heavy helping plate of those giant suckable ti—“ she hung up and continued as if the phone had never rung.

“See what I said?” said a patron in the corner. “She has a bottom like she colored.”

“You sure she ain’t?” said the man sitting across from him.

“She Dutch-Irish all the way through. That family got asses like horses all the way back to the Mayflower.”

“They’ve been knocking people off it with every turn, I bet.”

They both began laughing low and mischievous.

One of the men lifted his beer to his lips. Then he set it down, his eyes still on your mom.

“What you thinking, Roy?” the other asked.

The father, sitting nearby, began to speak louder to drown-out the crude conversation, keeping it from his daughter’s virgin ears.

“Nothing,” Roy said. He shifted in his seat. A vulgar smile formed at the edge of his face. “Just imagining—mmhm—imagining what she look like getting dressed this morning.”

---

The orange jumpsuit bottoms sat in the backseat, flung their splayed and empty now.

The old man watched the convict, his naked hips thrust upward as he pulled the pair of jeans over his pink thighs. The old man stared, not being able to stop himself, at the giant cock of the stranger which slid within his very own pair of jeans. The convict fell back down to the seat and then tried to zip up. The old man, frightened not only by its size, but also its stiffness, thanked the lord that his hostage-taker wasn’t interested, sexually that is, in wrinkled old men.

The convict made a few attempts to zip the crotch over his raging prick, but failing, he just sat there. He picked up his gun, then poked at his cock with it, pushing it aside slightly. “Yeah, I’ll need to do something about this if I have any hope of getting away. On the run with a dick’s-as-hard-as-iron’s like trying to fly with brass balls hanging ‘tween your legs.” He pulled the gun barrel away, and his cock fell into natural place on his belly. He looked to his driver. “You know what I mean?”

The old man gave no indication that he did.

The convict looked ahead, then looked back at his victim. “You get me to some ass soon. Either that or your slobber up and get your mouth to suckin’.”

The old man knew well enough that the ultimatum was rhetorical. It wasn’t until the convict kept speaking that a real dread began to rise though.

“Can’t wait to get me another fill. Cheese and grits, you get my drift. First the real thing then… the real thing.” He began laughing to himself. “And we in Mississippi soon. Mississippi has the best food and the best ass both. I shoulda had more fun in Mississippi when I was a free bird. The girls there must be descended from horses or coloreds. Maybe both even.” He shook his head and shifted in his seat. His cock swayed from one side to the other. “Freedom,” he said, then sighed. He held the gun so that the barrel sat diagonally against his temple. He shook his head. “I shoulda shot that last one,” he said. The atmosphere within the hot car went cold. “Let the bitch live. ‘stead a being grateful, she runs to the pigs, squealing herself.” He let his hand fall, then extending it out the window, levelling his pistol sight at a passing cactus. “Pow!” he said, and pulled the gun upward in a sudden jerk. He turned to his ride. “That’s practice for the lucky girl coming up.” His stern mouth bent into a grin.

The old man felt a bead of sweat forming within the edge of his hairline. He focused on it there, as if he could keep it in place with thought, terrified of the consequences it would drag out with it on the way to visibility.

The convict only stared at him for a moment. His cock, sitting there in the open, simply throbbed.

---

The patty throbbed on the grill.

“How is it,” one of the men in the corner asked.

His friend across from him chewed, then swallowed. “Almost as juicy as she is.”

His friend nodded. “If only we could taste both to compare.”

“Taste good?” the nearby father asked his daughter.

She looked up and nodded, still chewing.

He turned, waiting for your mom to near on her way to the counter. “Reviews are in, miss. You need to be asking your boss for a raise. You need us as witness at all, we’ll be on call.”

“Well, aren’t you sweet,” your mom said, at first passing. She then stopped, looked down in the blue eyes of the little girl. “You’d do that for me, sweetheart?” she asked.

The little girl stared, then nodded dutifully.

“Us too.”

She looked up to the see the two men at the corner table.

“You should be getting three-times pay. For waitress, cook, and sight for sore eyes.”

Your mom blushed. “Thanks a bunch,” she said, turning, not wanting to entertain the conversation further.

“’Sight for sore eyes,’” his friend mouthed back at him.

The other didn’t notice, just staring at her giant ass until it disappeared behind the counter. “You sure she didn’t have a great grandpappy own a plantation or nothin’?”

“If they did, her ancestors showed up the slave girls. No colored in ‘em, not none.”

“Slave boys probably picking cotton hard then.”

“Family’s poorer than a stump. Only slave they own was a mule, most likely.”

“Then we solved the mystery,” the other said, leaning back, his mind on the ass he could no longer see. “Her great, great grandma’s a mule.”

---

Teenage girls, free for the summer, walked along the hot sidewalk, even hotter themselves. Their faces beneath the shade of cowboy hats, their asses in tight-fitting jean shorts.

“See,” the convict said from the passenger seat, his elbow out the window. He tipped-up his stiff prick with the gun barrel. “Mississippi.”

The driver sat there, silent.

“If only it were fall yet, you could drop me at the high school and I’d make due with a whole classroom.” He turned to the old man as if eager to teach. “Southern girls cursed. Sins of their fathers. Tears of the slaves came like a great flood, washing them of all ugliness and regulareness like they have up north. We was left with a million beauts, and their bodies just open and baking in the sun, getting us men-who-can’t-hear-‘No’ all hot and bothered three-sixty-five days a year.” He turned around and looked at even more blonde girls moving down the street, the backs of their thighs, down to the heels of their feet, succulent. “They turn fifteen and something happens to that backside. Toby’s Curse, they call it. Ass of a negress, just askin’ for the massa’s whip.” His head pivoted like a young boy’s at the candy store. “Nice little town. I’m gonna have fun here.” Then his pivot stopped. His eyes focused on something in the near distance. A smile took his lips. “But first, we gonna have ourselves a little bite to eat.”

Not too far off, sitting there like a lizard in the sun, a giant sign sat atop a conspicuous block of concrete, windows on its side that might as well have been reflector tape, the treats within hidden behind a blinding glare. “Heidi’s,” the sign said, and it sat there, ready for what was to come next in the little space it held within.

---

“No way,” one of the men in the corner said, slowly bringing blue to his tongue with his thumb.

“Why not,” the other said.

He swallowed the blue velvet, just the amount he needed to keep functioning. “Because negroes don’t look that good.”

“What do you mean they don’t look good?”

“They don’t look that good, I says. She Dutch-Irish. I ain’t creative enough to just make that up.”

“No, she the descendant of at least one of those beautiful negresses. If not a few.”

“No negro made me melt like this, not one,” he said, looking over at your mom, her tits jiggling as she lifted the phone. She nodded, good-natured, a few times, then her face suddenly dropped to a scowl, and she slammed the receiver, her tits jiggling yet again. “She the prettiest woman in the county.”

“In the state.”

“In the country.”

“The biggest ass in the country,” the other said, slowly as if to prove a point.

“Check please,” said the father at the nearby table, having heard enough from these two, his daughter having heard too much from the jump.

Your mom looked to the father and smiled impatiently. “Just a minute,” she said, heading to the grill.

There was a clanging of chimes and everyone, except your mom, looked to the door.

An old man stood there, looking like a ghost. He only stood there, not moving. Then behind him, a younger man with a sweaty head and clean clothes, pushed forward, tugging up his zipper. “Ah,” he said, looking to his startled partner. He put his hand on his partner’s shoulder. “It’s in.”

He looked into the diner, pushing the old man delicately forward. He saw blonde hair. He looked ahead to see a little girl, blues eyes beneath those blonde locks, looking back at him. The old man felt a sudden revulsion come to him at the sight of her, thoughts gnarled and twisted filling his mind, their specifics without shape.

The convict noted she was still a couple years off for his taste, though he knew she’d be there one day. He then turned his head. Finding a table, he also, slowing down upon seeing her, found your mom behind the counter, seeing the back of her head as she busily worked on a burger patty. He took note, not being able to see the face or much else. Hate to blow it on a middle-aged Flow or Lucinda on account of my excitement, he thought. I need to keep myself on the prize. If I’m having a party, might as well make it a big ‘un.

He sat down with a grin. He looked down. “Menus already here,” he said happily. “Convenient place. Or is this standard Mississippi practice?”

The old man said nothing, only sitting there.

The convict looked through the menu. “Gee golly,” he said. “Food to a starving man. Much better than what they got on the inside.”

A shadow, big and bottle-shaped, fell over him. “What it’ll be,” it said, rushed but unavoidably silky.

He slowly looked up to see a feminine face, Dutch-Irish perhaps, looking down at him with big green eyes, its outer fringes bright with a halo of window light.

His up-looking expression slowly formed into a wide grin. “Much better than what we had on the inside,” he repeated to his friend.

Your mom’s mouth tightened in confusion.

“Well, sweetheart,” he said. “Just get me a coke. Me and him both. It’s been a while since I had one.” He stopped to think for a second. “Make that three and enjoy it yourself. You look thirsty, and it’s on us.”

She laughed to herself. “It’s no bother,” she said. “I eat for free as common practice.”

“Yes, but it’d brighten my day highly if I knew we’s paying for it. If you don’t like coke, make it ginger ale or whatever else and drink to your pretty heart’s content.”

Your mom smiled. “Thank you kindly. But as far as food, you need a minute?”

He stared up into her eyes, the rest of her form not needing direct gaze in order to be seen, her shape just as appetizing half-regarded. “I think I already know what I want,” he said gravely, and let it sit there for a moment. “But my partner here’s a little less assertive in his tastes. Can you give us a minute‘r two?”

“I sure can,” she said.

She turned around and walked off, and he stared directly into her ass as she went. As he did, the little girl stared at him, seeing something in him which reminded her of the bedside stories her dad would give. The ones which made the shadows in her bedroom come alive on her.

“Beautiful place,” the convict said, not letting his eyes fall from your mom’s shape. “I’ll be getting my fill here,” he said, and he looked to the old man, whose heart sunk before him. “Oh,” he said. “You’re in for a beautiful sight. Don’t think when you started the day you could have ‘spected to see a woman as pretty as that get treatment like this here is the Middle Ages.” He flipped the menu page and tilted his head. “It’s always the Middle Ages with me. I’m a man out of time, Jack. A man out of time.”

The old man trembled there, his palms leaving his mark in sweat on the table. His gut tingled mercilessly, his legs weak and his lungs hungry for oxygen. He had known your mom’s fate the second he saw her, and had only held on to the thought that his captor was blind. Now all he could hope was that he was dreaming. But he knew he wasn’t. He knew days like this happened to some out there, very few, and that it would just so happen to be hers this time. His too as witness of it. His cock crawled against the length of his inner-thigh, heading fruitlessly toward his kneecap, growing stiff, even as he tried to shake the thoughts which came so forcefully now.

“She gonna be a suckin’ and fuckin’ mess soon.” The convict looked up, eyes with vague conspiracy and stillness against the whole room. He shifted in his seat and looked back down. “Cock’s harder than this gun barrel right now.”

The old man could almost see the gun in the horror of his mind, beneath the table, between his very own stolen jeans and the man’s pink thighs which wore them.

“I’ll hit her from the front when I’m done. Keep the face pretty,” he said. The old man’s heart stopped. “Exit wound the bigger of the two. ‘specially at this calibre.” He looked up and across the restaurant. “Have to hit a child too. It’s been a while since the last. Little girls flop nice and easy.” He looked beyond one shoulder of the trembling, red-faced old man and then shifted beyond the other, taking in every individual body. “The rest is all men. One, two, three, four, five,” he looked to the old man himself. “Six.” He laid down the menu. “Six hungry peckers is eating on me today.” Again, back down to the menu. “I’m a one-man Mahatma Ghandi, I tell you.”

Your mom, again, lifted throbbing phone to her ear. “Yes’m,” she said absently.

“I’ll eat cream from out your—"

She slammed it shut.

She placed her stack of plates down on the counter and turned around.

The new patron sat there, looking over at her with a friendly smile, his finger up in the air, looking apologetic to have to inconvenience her again. She tried to put on a warm smile and moved toward him, reaching for the pad and pen in her breast pocket, not noticing the tomato-red skin of the old man who sat across from him.

“You know what you’re getting?” the convict asked him as your mom approached. “No?” he said, and sucked his tongue. “Guess I’ll just have to order for us both.”

He then, without indication, shot up. Your mom stopped dead in her tracks, her body jiggling from the suddenness of it. From out the old man’s borrowed jeans, held tight in the convict’s fist, came a glittering silver, not too different from that seen on a pair of handcuffs. Only, this silver sat in his palm, his finger stretched delicately over its guard. Its nose containing a little black hole at its end.

Your mom’s breath stopped, joining the stillness in the throat of the old man.

The convict moved his thumb, and there was a distinct click which turned the last few remaining heads in the building toward him. “I’d hate to tarnish your pretty face with a new hole, miss. Please be amenable. Me and my partner here’d ‘preciate it kindly.”

There was a gasp or two within the room, that and the single scrape of a chair, but other than that, only silence.

“And just for anyone who fancies himself hero,” he called to the rest without looking, his eyes still glued to your mother. “Just remember there’s a lil girl here. Any issue, I’m shooting her first. Like I was telling my partner here, it’s not somethin’ I wanna do. But I will do it if necessity calls for it. So play nice.”

The father of the girl in question felt his very daughter’s short life flash before his eyes. The whole room became unreal to him. That was all it took for his mouth to remain shut, and others, feeling only a fraction of what he did, did the same, even those two who sat near him, their eyes as shivery as their uneasy guts.

“Here, Karl,” the convict said, conjuring a name from dust. He leaned toward the old man, handing him the gun. “They move, e’en an inch, you shoot.”

The old man felt the gun press firmly into his trembling palm. He stared down at it, feeling its weight there, being sure, for the first time since he first saw the gun an hour ago, that it had shells in it.

He looked up to see his ‘partner’s’ gaze on his. “Don’t worry. After my fill, you get yours. As sure as rain.”

“I’ll give you everything,” your mom shrieked. “The whole till.” It was less to bargain with him, and more so to bargain with the moment, to convince herself that money was all he was there for.

“Okay!” the convict said, almost singing it. “Shoot her.”

The old man’s eyes shot wide, and maybe, if she had been less choked with terror, she might have noticed, might have seen the allyship with her—at least in horror, in his face—or the weakness in the grip he held on that gun handle. Instead, all she could see then was her own white hot terror.

The convict then, seeing her locked in place, lunged for her.

She screamed again as her blouse was tore open, and the convict, more beast than man, plunged toward them with a mouth hungrier than she knew.

The little girl watched your mom shriek with terror as her giant breasts, much bigger than her own mother’s at home, were exposed, being danced along by that tongue, made wet with its saliva.

The whole room watched, the old man most of all, his mouth open. The two men in the corner behind him stared. The beautiful woman, more mule than man, with her breasts exposed, and her continence in panic, even more than humiliation, stood before them now as they always wanted to see her.

Of course to the convict who filled his hungry mouth with all she had to give, he knew no other form of intimacy besides that he took with force, having lost his flower through this very method. To him, and in his imagination, she stood a willing participant. Your dad in the coal mine, and you kicking the air beneath your desk at school, either didn’t exist, or existed but meant nothing. Her screams and tear-gaining eyes were moans and tears of pleasure. He knew it not to be true, but imagined it with such force, he, this time like others, would feel this moment with as much emotional satisfaction and companionship as there was sexual satisfaction and predation.

He lifted his head from her trembling breasts, and shot his hungry lips to her ‘longing’ mouth.

She screamed and bawled, and he heard and saw it, even as he heard and saw its opposite the same.

The old man was hard beneath the table, seeing this beauty’s breasts free and open, seeing her bawl with horror and shame. He felt the weight of the pistol, pulling against his fingers and wrists, practically glued to his hands, glued to his heart and groin, tugging him flat into the moment with or without his consent, his own cowardice to stop it, even with gun in hand, or his inability to turn away as horrifying to him as the rest of it, perhaps most of all.

Your mom was further stripped nude, and while it was fear which kept every voice from protest, they still watched all the same. Your mom’s body, with least recourse of all, was stripped within near-nudity. He looked to the father and his daughter as he tore at what little was left of her uniform, her back flat and flailing against the very table the old man sat at, your mom’s naked and thick flesh almost knocking the gun from his hands. The convict looked to the little girl, then to her father. “Keep ‘er watching,” he said. “I wan’ her to know what I’ll be doin’ to her mother soon.”

The father felt tears build behind his eyes, and like coal was hot in his throat. He knew it was an empty threat, and was scared more by his daughter being addressed at all. The fact that the man took pleasure in bringing her terror, and the fact that he as her father couldn’t keep her from it.

Like an emperor, a Tiberius in Capri, the convict wormed his way to your mom’s breasts, diving and twisting to nip at them like he were a desert snake.

Your mom looked more appetizing in fear and terror than she ever did during willing fornication with your father. Her perfection tucked within po-dunk Mississippi, commanded by circumstances so banal and regular, and a mind regular with it, perfectly suited for her environment in a way her face and body, being extra-ordinary, could never be.

He grabbed her head, pulling it toward the cock he exposed with his other hand, all while everyone watched, glued to their seats, unmanly with fear.

Your mom’s situation now, as much of a rarity as it was when faced by one person (or by a roomful of persons), was not all that rare when the scope of the looking glass was that of the whole nation.

Beautiful women were targets for this and all other sorts of moral indignities, even a magnet for it, most never facing the reaper of forceful lust, but one out of every few dozen, when faced by a just-so-enterprising soul during a just-so-convenient moment, come face to face with that reaper and become its happy target.

In other words, your mom wasn’t the only beauty tearfully gargling on cock while others watched, not even at this very moment. The world, even right this second, is filled with the sensuous screams of a beauty too rich for words.

As you comb, rage-filled and sick with arousal, over each and every word here, a home out there has been penetrated, turned inside out, and made a paradise of sex and pleasure by someone who will be, has been, or should be behind bars, at least as far as the conventions of society would have it.

The hypocrisy of those who judge such characters will go un-noted upon by this author. But a celebration of that which occurs to many a woman, mother or no, will be had in the vivid description of what came next.

Your mom’s ass, Mississippi fed, jiggled in the banal air of the establishment.

The jiggles like that of an embarassing underline to the moment. The taste thick and assaulting in her mouth, vaguely culinary, though not of the good sort, like that of foreign food where one has to wonder if it’s gone bad or that’s just what it tastes like. Horror of an extreme sort, when combined with such an assault, did wondrous things to a woman’s mind and sanity. Even girls of the southern sort, being tougher, broke like maidens over the seas in old english towns.

Her tears only added to the slobber she left up and down his cock. A cock which was slated by decree-of-state to never feel such sensation again. Yet here he was, an uncaged bird, flying in the glory of the sun, his wings beautiful in the daylight, proud of their own ode to nature.

Again, it’ll take the author of this here tale all the strength in his marrow to not cast a cursing glance on the judge which locked said convict away. “A scourge to the decency of man.” If such glorious moment makers are a menace, I’d like to see the word used when describing such judges as deem it necessary to lock them away.

Your mom jerked off his cock, all frantic and awkward-like, her spit falling from her trembling lips, involuntary. She felt his tongue probe up in her, disallowing her from sucking alone, hoping the palm sensation on the prick below would do.

The pluck of his tongue when removed from the pinkness inside her was audible, and he leaned a bit to say: “Both hands, sweetheart.”

Again, this author can’t help himself to mention: it’s a crime our hero here, with his freedom and firearm, would never meet the judge who chained him up so. Even still, he could take out our sick society’s injustice on your mom just fine, her body, in its perfection, paying the injustice back with interest.

Penises over the whole nation are being sucked in much the same way, with much the same threats and terror, and some even with onlookers to enjoy. I know you’re a bit terrified and titillated on account of this one being your own mother, of course, but I want you to know the story doesn’t begin and end in this diner. It’s a worldwide victory being explored the world over, all at once, a celebration on cocks of many sizes and colors, some even in the south. Some even to a jewel of Mississippi itself.

Again, he had to imagine the pleasure in your mom that she was too stupid to feel herself. What everyone in that room saw, except himself, was her screaming and crying and wailing in every moment.

“Now get to licking my flesh pillows,” he said. “And do it good. Any teeth and my partner here will blow them to their back of your skull, you hear?”

She heard somehow, even over the sound of her own heavy breath and sobbing.

He looked over to see the little girl looking, her dad allowing it like he was commanded. “I’ll be doing this to your mother soon, sweetheart,” he said through the pleasure. “Nice and nakey in your living room, with your pa’ there doing nothing to stop it.”

He could’a too, had not the system made life for his kind so needlessly perilous and hard to pull off. The police, judges, courts, and prisoners all hung over him like a sword of Damocles, waiting to fall, as arbitrary as ever. It’s a miracle, even now, your mother got the workover she deserved.

God determines a man’s innocense through the beauty of his cock and what not, and a woman’s guilt through the beauty of her whole. Given so, the sight witnessed by that peanut gallery here was as just as just goes. Even your mother’s face, through all the tears and the runniness in her nose, held that beauty, only proving the point further. The dignity in her features ever only be a measure of the height she was meant to fall. Now she fell that height, and like all who did, she took childish issue.

Your dad’s cock was nowhere near the beauty. And your dad, hypocrite himself, was another obstacle to all this goodness. Luckily, being removed by space, he had no say. His wife was bride to the moment now. Your mom giving birth to this pleasure.

“Well, miss,” he finally said, giving false hope of satiation. “Your pretty mouth is doing me wonders. But given as I’ve tasted no part of any woman for the better part of a decade, let’s get my cock tastin’ what my tongue just did.”

He flipped her over, and she screamed, startled, then figuratively bit her tongue, thoughts of the little girl’s safety rich in her mind. He then inserted himself in her, much to her dismay.

The shoes your dad bought her clung to her feet, the only part of her decent. Your dad said she looked ‘special’ in her running shoes, and he wasn’t lying. She was a gem, especially with nothing on otherwise.

His cock plunged through your mother, the way he imagined himself doing, alone in that cell, climbing through that drainage pipe for escape like he had seen in that movie once or twice, the one where it was the ‘good’ convicts, ‘innocent men,’ who escaped, as if they deserved it alone, and he did not.

If Hollywood had any testicles of worth, it’d be stories like this one they told, with all the care, craft, and special effects they’d use on others. It’s only the written word, ghettoized to this strange part of the internet, which told these tales, the ones which really needed to be told. The ones which brought the human soul up, instead of down into the sewage of respecting a woman’s dignity at the expense of all else.

One thing Hollywood did get right though: all great stories need a kiss.

He kissed her sobbing face. “Cellmate of mine, real crazy fucker,” he said. “Always’s been saying that every one of his ‘girls’—that’s what he calls his victims’m—would be with him in the life yonder, after this one.” He thrust, kissing your mother’s trembling lip again, them shaking so violently they felt as if she’d come apart against his own. “I don’t think that’s how it works. Though I wouldn’t mind if I make it to hell, and it’s you I end up seeing there, chained up, waiting for me.” He kept thrusting, feeling her every inch inside. “I’m’a try to stay up here in the daylight for as long as possible, but when I get down there, I better find you’ve been faithful for me. The demons ain’t going to lie for you ‘less you treat their peckers all half as good as you treated mine.”

There was a stillness in the room, thicker, almost, than the sounds of their plapping bodies.

“What’s the name of the hubby you leaving behind? Any kids?”

She looked into his eyes, her own wild and blue with terror. She suddenly screamed, losing all concept of everyone else, even the girl, and she thrashed there in his lap, giving even more accidental pleasure to his cock inside her. He grabbed her wrists with all the force he built doing push-ups against concrete nightly.

“Uh-uh,” he said. “We’ll be having none of that” He grabbed her, one hand through her hair, the other still holding her wrist, and dragged her with brute force, her feet trailing as she kicked.

He let go of her wrist, still dragging her by her hair, and pointed at the little girl. “Now you watch, sweetheart. Your mother’s getting it twice as hard—from both of us—” he pointed at his partner. “And we blowin’ her head off when we’re done too.”

He twisted your mother and grabbed her in a bear hug from behind.

It was a shame women loved so stupidly, as they, together, would have made a hell of a couple. A society where the law understood as much would have seen this in them and let the man go. Your father though, being embarrassing, as you know, was not just who the law favored, but, more offensive to the palette, who your mother chose to tie her hitching rope to.

If that ain’t the sole justification for the image you see below…

…this author doesn’t know what could be.

But of course, as a man of prose, his alliance is with beauty, truth and justice, not the petty small-mindedness of the herd. You’ll get no apologetics for society’s evil here, only a celebration of its true saving graces, the proud heart of the convict being one of them, this moment even more so.

The men in the room, all hypocrites themselves, watched the moment with cocks as hard as iron. Still they felt, in their true heart of hearts, they were looking upon evil. It’s like the good book says, this world’s a den of iniquity. You and I, dear reader, are two of the few, like followers of old, who could weather the flames of this fiery furnace and still walk out unscathed.

Speaking of matters of the church…

I think you know as well as I whose ownership your mom is soon to be passed on to.

After the two lovebirds were finished, she stood there, her hip leaning against the table, sobbing.

He stood a few inches from her, almost more intimate in their nude distance than they were in touch. His cock hung between its legs, softening from its eager beauty into a shrivelled mass like anyone else had.

He reached over, taking an unspent burger from a plate and bit into it. He looked to his partner. “Everything on the outside is better,” he said, and took another bite. “Everything.”

She stood there, sobbing silently.

After he was done eating, he grabbed the gun from the old man. “Okay now.” He began waving it in the air almost dainty-like. “All of you’s. All. Let’s get to the back.” There was a reluctance. “Don’t make me have to get violent now. It’s just a formality.”

They slowly began to raise, the father among the last. He moved over his daughter, then, reluctant himself, coaxed her to raise up and they all moved to the backroom.

“Let’s go, let’s go,” he said. He followed them in, nude.

Your mom and the old man stood in the empty area. He looked over at her. She was beautiful, even broken as she was.

He saw her jump just as he heard it, a gunshot. He looked over at the empty doorway to the back, not knowing if she did too. First there was nothing, then “no, no, no!’ and the wailing of what sounded like the father coming low from the ground.

Then there was more shots, and the sound of a sort of scuffle and like dropping weights. The father wailed still underneath it all. And then another shot and even that stopped.

The old man stared at the doorway. Suddenly, a nude body came back out, that smile attached to it. He held something now in his fingers, like a card, tapping it against the fingers on his other hand. “Daddy dearest only lives a few miles south from here.” It was the father’s driver’s license. “Maybe we will pay mommy a visit after all. Just for a few days.” He lifted the license, presenting its image. “He’s a looker, isn’t he? I’m sure his wife’ll be fun. At least ‘til they check the dental records back there and come to the house.”

He then looked over at your mom, his property, up and down. “Truth is though, I doubt whatever she look like, she’ll look good as this.”

The old man stared.

He lifted his gun with a limp wrist. “Go on,” he said, waving his partner toward the woman with his gun barrel. “Go on now. Have fun, or I swear I’ll shoot.”

The old man, in his youth, had withstood the call of hypnotism at a work party in Dallas once. He prided himself on that, hearing it was hard to hypnotize someone with a strong sense of themselves.

Now here he was…

…and as he gave it to your mother, he felt himself far away, not from her or from the pleasure she gave, but from her sobs and the dead look in her eye, even from the fear that he’d be gotten rid of next, that the next gunshot would ring with that bullet tearing through his head, front to back, to reach hers. Instead, he just enjoyed this, the pleasure of the most beautiful woman he’d ever been with, her time on this earth a third of his own in years, yet her body all his to enjoy. The guilt and awareness did come, but only after he was finished, and his cock fell out of her. Even still, he couldn’t bring himself to regret the moment.

The convict patted the old man on the shoulder. “Congratulations, young gun. You’re a man now. Now go get the car.” When the old man pulled the car up to the diner door, the convict slapped your mom on the elbow as if she were a friend, and then took her with him, the both of them nude, into the backseat of the car. He set her down there, sitting with her seatbelt fastened, as if she were an invalid, and he set himself down comfortably beside her.

The car slowly pulled off.

As they passed the wailing sirens of a police car coming the opposite way, covered in the cool shade of the car’s back seat, he tried to shove his pistol up your mom’s pussy. He got it up pretty well, with only the handle hanging out. “Hm,” he said. “I wonder what else we can stash up in her.” He put his open palm over her thigh. “Our sweet little mule, here.”

Your mom’s body would stash quite a few things in the following weeks, and after having her asshole licked raw by a grieving mother for a few days, she then rode around with the two men in a completely new wardrobe (thought it all wore very tight around her tits and ass). Her pussy and asshole were stuffed with jewelry, and she sat uncomfortably, stone-faced, in the backseat, with the convict whispering into her ear sweetly, as if they were already man and wife in hell. Sometimes she thought they were.

There are many stories as to what happened next. Some think she was strapped to a cactus to roast out in the Arizona sun. Others claim she was thrust into an industrial drainage pipe, just bigger than her, and was sucked headfirst down to the Mississippi river. One person even suggested, suggested like it were common knowledge, that she was tied to a rusted cross, in mockery of our lord, and shot in the gut to die slow (he took a sip of his beer after saying it). The man sitting next to him though called him dumb, that it was common knowledge that she was tied to that cross, blindfolded, and was shot in the head mid-plea for mercy.

My favorite though, and perhaps the one I hold to as true because of it, is the one I heard from Llewellyn-Sue, the one they call ‘The Witch’ who lives down by the Creek outside of Bethany. “In the daytime,” she says. “When the sun is hot, and right over head and mad, you can see ‘em, driving in that car, its hull all thick with rust, as red with it as the hair on her head, and they search, the three of them, for anything in the dust, anything to see how much they can fit inside her. Marriage, the two of them, the third in everlasting servitude at the wheel in front. The whole unholy thing officiated by Lucifer himself: Matrimony between the Hellraiser and the Devil’s mule.”

Folks are superstitious down here. But who’s to say it means they’re wrong?

Just because they talk like they do, it don’t mean they’re slow.