Abominations

David held the photo book open, the front cover on his lap, and the back cover on the lap of his nephew.

“Look how ugly they are,” he said. He looked down at the top of his nephew’s head. His nephew stared down at the images silently. Faces of interracial people, half-black, half-white, stared up at him. “It’s the negroid gene. It doesn’t matter how attractive the woman—it’s always a fucking woman… whores—just one little drop of black in them and their kids look like they came out the bog.”

His nephew pulled his gaze from the images and looked up at his uncle. “W-what’s a bog?” he asked.

“A nog? That’s short for ni—”

“A bog,” he repeated.

“Oh,” his uncle said, then looked down at the page. “It’s a swamp. Like a scary place, where real ugly things come from. Things that shouldn’t exist.” He scowled at the picture of a mixed-race child smiling.

His nephew stared at him wordlessly.

“It’s what this country is turning into.” The sound of birds chirping spilled in through the window.

His sister came back later, her body nearly bursting out of her clothes when she did. “Thanks for watching him, Dave.” She hauled her son up into her arms. “You know work is hectic this time of the month.”

“EBT checks,” he said.

She furrowed her brow. “No. It’s— strip clubs are always busy during spring break. Are you ready to go, sweetheart?” She was addressing her son. “What did you and Uncle Dave do today?”

“Education,” David said. He put his index finger to his temple melodramatically. “We’re feeding the mind.”

“Oh,” she said, and smiled. “Sounds wonderful. Aren’t you lucky to have such a smart uncle?” She rubbed noses with her son, who then buried his face against her shoulder.

David stood at his front door, watching them off, admiring his nephew’s blonde hair and blue eyes. He could barely sleep a wink in the days, those perilous nine months, when his sister’s belly grew. He tossed and turned in his bed, and only found a peaceful night on the day his nephew bursted forth from out her womb, and David saw those blue eyes staring up at him. He put out his finger, which his nephew grabbed. “Beautiful little aryan,” he said. “As pure as summer rain.” He didn’t recall ever feeling as much relief in his entire life as he did on that day.

His sister now, her ass nearly popping out of her jean shorts, got into a black and rusted pick-up truck with her son.

“Hey Cyrus,” David called to the driver.

Cyrus only looked back, his bare arm hanging out the window, a big iron cross on his tricep. He saluted a fellow traveller with an outstretched arm and palm. “Zieg heil,” he mouthed.

“Fuckin’ zieg heil,” David whispered back. “Fuckin’ zieg heil.” He longed for the day when they could say it out loud. It’s coming, he thought. It’s coming.

David watched the truck pull away, and as it did, sending black smog into the fresh sunlight, a woman, a white woman in fact, appeared beyond it across the street, standing on her lawn with a watering can, looking up at her husband on the stoop.

David scowled.

The woman stood there, facing away. The back of her head, which should have held beautiful straight hair, instead was mauled, as far as David saw it, into a mongrelized bed of corn rows. “I bought him whiskey,” she called across her lawn.

Her husband, an Arab, looked down at her, squinting in the sun. “Oh shit, babe.” He laughed. “Ali is Muslim. And he’s serious about it too. He doesn’t drink. He won’t even let it in the house.”

The white woman stood there silently for a moment. Then: “’Oh shit’ is right… Now I gotta go out and get a new present before we go.”

Her husband shrugged. “Maybe we can stop at a delicatessen for some pork,” he said. “I’m sure he’ll like that.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she said, slowly stepping with exaggerated, leggy steps toward him.

“And we’ll give him a rosary and The Greatest Story Ever Told on bluray.”

David watched her, very closely, as she walked up her steps, her giant ass tensing wonderfully as she did. He noted that her ass looked better than his sister’s did, and that was saying a lot (his sister got paid for showing her ass to drunken crowds of men every night after all, and not a little bit). And just as he did, those arms, brown without being suntanned, wrapped around her, a big, brown hand falling on that ass cheek. As if to drive David truly crazy, it squeezed, and the ass gave, spilling around those brown, hairy fingers.

The two of them disappeared inside, leaving only the image of a pristine suburban home. It reminded David of some disgusting lizard, or maybe even something worse, disappearing underneath a pure white rock.

He slammed the door and went back to his coffee table. He grabbed his photo book, entitled ‘Abominations,’ filled with the images of people he never knew in person, nor would ever want to. He shoved it into the drawer beneath his liquor cabinet, right next to his copy of Mein Kampf and his replica luger. He slammed it shut, and then, as if in one motion, opened the cabinet, pulling out whisky, and poured it into his favorite tumbler. “Sand niggers,” he said, shook his head, then took a drink. He swallowed then exhaled slowly. “They’re almost as bad as regular kind.” He grimaced, and then stood there for a moment, staring, as if he was regarding his image reflected in the cabinet glass. Instead his mind was filled with the image of that ass, those two bare white legs, those succulent thighs, beautiful with every step. He had a new bitter taste, worse than any liquor, to contend with now. “White women,” he said, giving his darkest trouble a name. “Nigger-loving shitheads.” And then he downed the entire glass.

What is he?

The phrase had been swimming through your head all day. You sat there in the backyard, looking down at your shins laid out on the lawn chair before you. They were a slight bronze in the sunlight. And you hadn’t even developed a tan yet.

He’s like Indian or something, you remember her friend saying.

Really, she said. He’s so— and then her voice trailed off in the distance.

You sat there in the sun, wondering at what she could have said. The words which filled that blank space varied though, only pulling your psyche apart further. You had stood in front of your mirror as soon as you had gotten home, staring at yourself, trying to derive an answer, as if it would be written within the peculiar shape of your face. Your nose was slightly hook-shaped, your eyes green, your lips pouty, curly black hair, but with no beard, even well into puberty. What is he? You stepped away, leaving the mirror clean and silvery without your image in it. Now you sat on your lawn chair, looking at the ambiguous shade of your shins. They looked back up at you as if to ask why you were staring at them.

“I don’t know,” you said to them. “What are you?”

“Who you talking to?”

You looked over your shoulder. Your mother, the source of an entire half of everything you were, stood leaning against the sliding glass doorway. She was played with her braided hair. You looked up at her face, then down at her figure, not being able to stop yourself, then back around at your shins. “Nobody,” you said. Back when you were younger, you had wondered whether your constant attraction for her, your own mother, had something to do with you being an Arab. You had discovered since, thanks to the internet, that this proclivity for incest was just as common with white people as it was with anyone else. You stared at your shins, trying to see them as belonging to a white man.

Your mom, seeing, as if through your very skull, that you were in deep thought, smiled at the back of your head. “Don’t listen to grandpa, hey?”

You turned around and gave her a look.

“If you want to read the Quran,” she said. She let go of her braid and it fell to her hip. “You can, alright? Don’t let him pressure you. You’re an adult now. You can make your own decisions.”

The chair squeaked as you leaned. You had been sitting here, obsessed with the idea of your ethnic identity, awash in the ambiguity of it. Now you sat there with the added bogginess of your religion. It was irritating to you just how forcefully this question called to you, considering neither of your parents ever tried to push religion on you. Your dad never talked about the subject, but by all appearances, almost seemed to be an atheist. Your mom believed, even putting up a Catholic trinket or two around the house, and always talking about the dead—including her late grandfather, who she loved more than anyone—as if they were still alive somewhere, watching her from beyond death. You had never seen her pray, and only assumed she never did. That was until you had snuck into her room that one time, hid a camera amongst a heap of your dad’s clothes. You had come back later, feeling so excited you could have passed out, and you grabbed the camera. When you looked at the footage, the likes of which were enough to give you a religion of your own, you saw her get down on her knees, completely nude, with her rosary in her hands, and pray up to the icon of the Virgin Mary above her door, all in a hushed but intense whisper, her eyes shut tightly beneath her brunette hair (this was long before she got her corn rows).

Her ass, with the heels of her feet beneath it, as if they were a throne propping it up, looked at its best, its bare ass cheeks expanding from the pressure of those heels, her body tensed in a moment of supplication to God, her ass crack elongating and black. It was then that you realized she was murmuring a prayer for her late grandfather. That’s when you knew you had to cum, and you did, feeling as justified doing it, justified during, and justified after you were finished, as you had doing anything else.

You wiped the sticky warm cum from your body with a sock. And then you dropped the sock to your chairside, watching your on-screen mom finish her prayer and then hop back up to her feet. “Game, set, match, white girl,” you groaned to yourself. You made copies of the video file, ensuring you would never lose it.

You sat now in your lawn chair, looking at your ‘white’ shins. Your mom in the doorway behind you, her arms crossed. You hated that gesture, the confidence of it, the poise, it reminded you of so many other white girls, all of whom irritated you, even as they titillated. Maybe I really am an Arab first and foremost, you thought.

“We’ll be going soon,” she said. “We’ll bring back you back some kebab.” She snorted, knowing you hated kebab.

“Not entirely Arab, I guess,” you murmured to yourself.

“What?” your mom said.

“Nothing.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” she said, jokingly. She punched the palm of her opposite hand, three times so you could hear her.

She was incredibly unfunny.

She turned around and went back in, leaving the door open to the warm summer air. You watched her big white girl ass as she disappeared within the house’s shade, feeling yourself get more and more ‘Arab’ with each step and jiggle of those white ass cheeks. Jesus Christ… you thought, not knowing whether you meant the messiah or the prophet. Her ass cheeks disappeared into darkness.

You turned back around on your chair and sat there quiet, until the image of Jill, those pure blue eyes under that head of blonde hair, assaulted you. Her cute little butt, much different from your mother’s, yet still you wanted her, wanted that cute little white butt, with all the will of your soul. You imagined her mouth, trying to conjure the image of it saying something, finishing her earlier sentence with words of your own: He’s so— “Ugly,” “cute,” “foreign,” “interesting,” “strange,” “Indian,” “Greek or something.” They all came to you, and you sat there, stuck between each face of hers, the number of them multiplying for each variation. Those pretty eyes, looking at you from each version of her, surrounding you on all sides, regarded you for answers, fixated on the question of just what you really were, almost as fixated as you were yourself.

You knew your parents would be out of the house soon, and soon you’d be upstairs. You’d be sitting on your computer chair, letting the quandary wash away in the pleasurable stream of your mom’s bent over and pious ass on the screen of your laptop. Those sweet white ass cheeks, the pure white soles of her feet beneath them. She adjusted herself, her ass jiggling as she placed one foot over the other. Hallelujah, you thought, already getting hard. God was indeed great.

A white woman walked, nude and with real weight, up and down her bedroom on your laptop screen. Above the doorway at the opposite end, an icon of the Virgin Mary looked down on her just as she assumed her grandfather did. “Move that white ass,” you murmured to yourself while tugging your ambiguously-colored cock, doing so while leaving out the ‘mommy’ you usually added to such invocations. “White bitch,” you said, feeling powerful saying it. “Built for Arab dick.” The scowl on your face turned to a smile. “Yeah, that’s what you’re built for.” Your brownish dick tugged, pulling your testicles tight. “Built for black cock,” you said, feeling a thrill at it, not knowing what that truly meant beyond the obvious. You saw your reflection cast over the wonderful image on screen, the hook nose, the green eyes, the works, and your arousal at the thought of BBC dominating your ‘white self” seemed absurd. BBC dominating you as an Arab felt even more absurd, your white mother being the object of question (and what an object!) on screen now.

“Built for big Arab cock,” you grumbled, and felt your cock getting even softer. “It’s literally true,” you mumbled to yourself, in reference to your father, as if you had to explain out loud why the taboo of the statement held no allure for you.

You then tried to get yourself off through the taboo of imagining your parents going at it. You felt your cock getting harder, imagining not only your mom’s body during sex, but your dad’s body with her. The image was really nice to consider, very erotic just by the nature of how it probed into something so intimate, but besides the realization just then that you found your father to be pretty attractive himself, the whole foray into getting pleasure from their sex life wasn’t cutting it. The thoughts of your dad’s off-colored cock, nice and hard, as he waited for your mom to come and mount him, was making you feel a little too good. “Maybe I’m more white than I thought.” You began laughing to yourself, and as you did, your cock fell from your fingers, and deflated until it was completely flaccid.

You then just sat there, leaning back in your chair, your arms on its arm rests.

Why did I take this video? you thought, combing over the question for answers. Is it because I’m sexually aggressive, and therefore an Arab? Or is it because I’m a pervert, and maybe more white? Did I do it to expose a white woman, kaffir that she is? Or did I do it because I have no respect for anything sacred, kaffir that I am? Was this ideological, and therefore a terrorist act, or emotional, and therefore something born of desperation, like a school shooting?

Your cock was completely flaccid now, with no hope of getting hard. You stared off into space. But as you did, a little figure moved, blurry, through your window. You were startled by it for a moment, then you leaned forward to get a better look, almost thinking the little black dot was an ant on the glass. But then you could see, it was indeed through the glass, down on your neighbor’s front stoop.

The image, soon to become images, became clear through your smudged window glass. It was the neighbor, the one across from you with the literal skin-head. The one who had looked at you, on more than one occasion, as if you were a freak from the zoo. The one who looked at your father as if he were a contagion. The one who looked at your mother like… you felt your cock getting a little harder.

You then leaned forward more, your chair wheels rattling as you went. You opened the blinds to get a better look. It was a young man, a teenager from the street, and not a well behaved one. He was talking to the man. He seemed to look over, more than once, and for more than a few seconds. You couldn’t tell. But it almost seemed as if they were looking at your house, or at least at its front door, which was a floor below and off to your right.

You squinted, falling back in your chair. And then you saw the man, David you were pretty sure his name was, handing the teenager something white and black and cylindrical. The teenager took it. Again, he looked at your house then back up at the man.

The man gesticulated, shrugged, and gesticulated some more. He then waved his hand in the air, as if drawing a wavelength, and then shrugged again, and pointed. You looked down to where he seemed to be pointing at, and only saw your front lawn.

You then looked back up and you saw the two separate. The man stood on his stoup, watching the teenager. The teenager, and your heartrate rose at realizing it, seemed to be crossing the street, headed toward you. He began shaking the object in his hand.

“Hey! Hey!” you heard through the muffled glass. The skinhead’s hands rose in gesticulations and shrugs. The teenager ran up to him, and it looked almost as if the man slapped him in the back of his head, though it must have just been an illusion from the distance, as the young man didn’t react. He just looked up at the man, who gestured in a big circle, his finger in the air. “Use your head!” he then said, and pointed at his temple. Then he kept speaking, too quiet to hear, did another large circular motion with his hand, said “then come back,” and pointed at what had to be your house.

The young man walked off, looking back at him. “Your head!” the bald man said. “Don’t waste what your ancestors gave you!”

The kid turned around, clearly not taking the man’s words seriously. You watched the teenager disappear down the street, and then watched the man as he disappeared himself, back into his house, taking one last look at the front door of your house before slamming himself into his.

You sat back down.

“What the fuck was that about?” Your heartrate was slowing down. You were filled with that sickening version of worry one usually felt in dreams, the whole situation being strange, that man, always, being strange, with today being the first time that strangeness frightened you, that mouth now having teeth protruding from its pink gums.

You rolled back in your chair, seeing your mom’s ass as on the screen as she prayed.

Your mouth slowly morphed into a big smile. “Oh, that weirdo would love to see this, wouldn’t he?” Your cock began to get hard, real hard, against your thigh.

“He’d want to get this ass. I mean, who wouldn’t. But he would especially.” You reached for your cock and began stroking. “What would he do with it?” You furrowed your brow in thought. “Oh,” you said. “He’d fuck it good, alright. Fuck it real good.”

The thought of your mom there, riding that man with her hands resting, fingers splayed, on his bald head; her ass going up and down on his lap, his cock disappearing within her; her cheating on your father, filled you with a strange syrupy bliss, one which was genuinely quite new. “Yeah, fuck that big ass. That big white jigaboo ass. That big white-bread eating, watermelon, arab-fucking ass. Fuck it! Fuck it, yeah!” Your voice was breathy and intense, pleading, but not to the man himself, more to the air of your empty bedroom, to the outer air of your empty house as if you implicitly believed it would answer back.

Just as you felt yourself nearing a rising, and likely to be perfect, climax, your thought was interrupted by the sight of a blurry dot in your window coming down the street from the opposite direction. Your open mouth fell shut. You wheeled up to the window at realizing the figure was coming toward your house. He was nice and low, sneaking along the hedges. He looked both ways as if to check if anyone could see him. You ducked back slightly into the darkness of your room, and then when you peeked back out again, you caught a glimmer of his black shirt, and he was gone. You tried to look down toward your front door, but you couldn’t, no matter how much you pressed your face against your window glass.

It was the vantage of your room which was the problem. You couldn’t even blame the bigness of your Phoenician nose or the fatness in your European cheek. And then you sat there, your ear against the window breathing. And that’s when you heard it, an odd sound, like a metallic, clicking snake rattle. It took you a second to remember what that sound reminded you of. And then you had it, it was the sound of a shaking spray paint can.

And what you heard next was a sudden hiss, and you could see, in your mind, the paint spraying from that hissing can.

You sat there, frozen, shocked. You couldn’t bring yourself to move, not until you heard the hissing stop, and you saw the teenager running from your lawn. As you did, and amid the toxic scent of chemical paint wafting up to your nose subtly, you saw the house across the street, its front door cracked slightly open, with a white face, no hair, no expression, staring out from the darkness within.

The teenager disappeared around down the street again, running as if guilt was chasing him. And after a few moments, that door, the face within backing up into the darkness, slammed shut.

You took a few minutes, being unable to move. But finally, you stood up, kicking your underwear and pants aside instead of putting them on, and you headed downstairs. You walked down, with bare feet, the same steps your mother walked down barefoot herself. And as you did, you saw the sunlight coming in, but this time a little overcast. You could hear birds chirping peacefully from outside, a distant sprinkler, but those sounds now, combined with the situation, and the slight dreamy tinge to the living room, sounded unreal. You found the bottom step and stood there, staring at the window. Staring back at you was a big message, clearly written backward so as to be read from within the house. It read “BIg PuRe white ASS tarnished with OiL”

You fell to the floor, the horrifying shock of it, mixed with the visceral sight of your mom’s ass, literally dripping with oil in your mind, hit you hard enough. But the thought, the realization, that someone else was talking about that very ass, was blowing up its importance, plastering it there for you and the neighbors to see, robbing it of the shield of respectability which protected it, and doing so in such a grandiose way; the very cheeks of your mom’s ass, on trial.

You reached for your penis, hard and twitching with red shame and pink pleasure, and at just barely grazing it, you felt the waves of pure joy run through you. You kneeled there, your bare heels under your bare ass, as your cock, twitching, gushed out onto the floor, your very semen eager to escape your cramped and burning nutsack. The message stared back at you, stark and unapologetic, and you murmured silently to yourself. “God, fuck… please… please…”

As you did so, your mom, upstairs on screen, did the same, murmuring hail maries, her heels under her giant ass, looking up in thankful glee to that crucifix above her door.

You then sat there finished, frozen in your shock. In a few moments you got up. The puddle of cum sat there on the hardwood floor, as you stood outside in the sunlight of day, fully clothed, washing away the message with a bucketed concoction of soap water and chemicals you read about online. When it was finally clean, as if it had never been there, only then you came in to clean that little puddle of white shame inside. You wiped it up, it coming up like vanilla pudding into that paper towel, and then you threw it in with the others, their bodies, paradoxically, all tarnished with blackness.

You threw them out in the bin outside, burying them deep so your parents wouldn’t find them. You then went back upstairs, looked through your window at the neighbor’s house across the street, seeing only its black windows. Then the night came on, the white daylight fading slowly into moon-bitten blackness, and you lay in bed. You heard your parents come home. You heard some distant murmurs, some shuffling of their bodies and feet through the house, the subtle shutting of their bedroom door, then the loud, sharp slapping noise against your mom’s ass, and you could see it, as vividly as day, that white ass, its purity dismayed by an ‘oily’ brown hand. An ‘oily’ brown hip replaced it in your mind, finding that white ass flush, the two meeting. Your mom’s ass, apparently a bigger deal than you had ever realized, giving to it beautifully, incriminating itself further with every thrust it gladly took.

As you imagined those two bodies, clean and oily, in rapid and sweating copulation, you looked down at your cock, jerking it off, its hue, along with the hue of your hips and thighs, at the exact center point between those two vividly imagined forms. Like a ‘pure’ white ‘tarnished’ with oil. The confusion circled back on itself, its every strand finding a central point, and they all ascended, tangled as one, a tower toward the sunlight above, and the blinding release of sweet, sweet orgasm.

Your mom lay in her marital bed, her big ass uncovered, its every blemish and the stark black line between her cheeks, made bare by the orange morning sun. Your dad stood in front of the mirror, putting on his tie. After pulling it tight, he saw your mom’s ass reflected before him. She looked ridiculous there, erotic and white, just the way he liked her, and part of him thought of turning to her, climbing the bed and mounting her, getting a quick one in before his weekend trip. He knew she wouldn’t wake up during, being as deep a sleeper as she was.

The first time he had met her, if ‘met’ is the right word, she had been in this state. Her ass, big and nude, lay on her cousin’s bed. Your father, having dated that cousin for the length of about a week, had stumbled upon her on his way to meet his date as she got ready in her bedroom. He just stood there in the hallway, staring into the room your mom had passed out in, with shock.

He felt a poke at his elbow, and turned around to see his date, hungover and perturbed. She looked past him, saw what lay there in her very own bed. Her eyes went wide. “Why don’t we—” She took him and they went out to coffee not long after.

All the time, he sat there in the coffee shop with her, smiling, pretending to be tired himself, but really made wordless by thoughts of that faceless ass, lying there back at the house. It wasn’t until a week later when he could put a face and name to that ass. And a month later, after a few fights with the cousin, he was dating her instead.

His first release into that ass was a delicious release. He couldn’t believe he managed it, nor could he believe just how well her mind and personality gelled with his own. It was proof that, despite what his mother said, the world really was a round one, and the separating veil of race and culture, while substantial, was, in many ways, only superficial. He had met the woman for him, and no lightness of skin-tone, differences in facial structure, or the rosary hanging above her breasts was enough to separate him from her. Their bodies sat locked in pure photogenic bliss, nude on the couch, the tone of each’s skin complimenting the other, elevating the both in mutual erotic arithmetic.

He then finished inside her, without a condom, and he leaned down to her burning ear and whispered “don’t take your pill.”

She looked up at him, ambiguously. Then she broke the silence. “Say it again in Arabic.”

He smiled. “la tatanawali hubub mane alhaml ya luluatan jamilatan,” he whispered softly.

She raised an eyebrow. “All that?”

His full palm rested on the large ground of her ass cheek. “There was a little more in there.”

“You want to go again in a few minutes?”

“Uh uh.” He shook his head with a stern, forbidding expression. “I want to go now.”

Your mom’s moans couldn’t overshadow the sound of her clapping ass cheeks as he took her from behind.

Nine months later, and after a quickly-assembled lamb kebab-scented wedding, you were born.

He now regarded that ass, looking not too different than it did those eighteen years ago, framed beautifully, unwittingly, in their shared bedroom mirror.

He stared at it as he put on his coat. He picked up his suitcase. “See you in a few days, sweetheart,” he said. He left the room.

Her ass lay there, untouched and daylit, as his steps grew fainter. The front door opened and slammed shut. Then the sounds of a cab pulling away. All the while, that ass rose upward with her every breath, and descended with her slow restful exhale.

A new pair of footsteps, sock-softened and slow, approached. And then they stopped at around the doorway. She breathed there, her ass rising and lowering, with no knowledge in hell that she was being watched. Somehow the figure found the will to shut the door and step away. And, pretty soon, the sound of birds chirping was replaced by the sound of a machine, and the scent of inert morning air was replaced by the scent of brewing coffee.

Your mom’s nose twitched. Her eyes opened.

A small beam of white fell into that bed of black, and the two mixed, becoming something new and vague. Your mom mixed them with her spoon, and then she lifted the cup to her lips, her eyes shut with pleasure. The daylight spilled in from a clear clean window behind her. She lowered the cup, placing it to the table. She stuck out her tongue to lick her upper lip, noting, but quickly forgetting, a strange aftertaste. Then she took the cup with her into the living room. The coffee machine sat there, its kettle full, with its glassy edges tinged a strange shade of blue.

David lay completely nude on his recliner, staring at his smart-TV screen, stroking his cock. His body, a pure and beautiful white sat adorned with black ink, all up and down his torso, iron crosses, SS and HH symbols, even a nihilistic skull and crossbones as if his very body were a graveyard, a burial place for the humanity which should have existed there but didn’t.

On the screen, Alexis Texas, his once hero, rode a big white cock. “The good ole’ days,” he murmured to himself bitterly. The image of that ass, aged to a fine wine, riding that black cock, assaulted his inner-mind’s eye, and he threw it aside as quickly as it came, doing so to avoid the revulsion. Doing so to avoid another feeling, one even more insulting.

As he watched “The Legend,” as he usually called her, ride, he thought of his own sister, her finely-honed stripper ass, and the way it rode that aryan cock (which he could only assume was huge). He smiled with pride as he stroked himself. “An ass good enough for the Fuhrer,” he said. He thought of his sister, her shapely mountainous pink body, laying nude next to the Big H Man in the bunker on that final day. The thought of it, the thought of Hitler’s beautiful (probably big) cock resting hard on his sister’s thick thigh, was about to bring him to completion, when he suddenly heard the doorbell ring.

He shot up.

He sat there for a moment, not sure what to do. Then he waddled, hard cock and all, toward his window. He fingered the blinds and looked out. Sweet relief came when he saw that it wasn’t the cops. He thought about shutting off the TV, but then shrugged went to the door, letting the neighborhood hell-raiser, his partner in crime, in.

He opened the door, but stayed obscure behind it, and he motioned the young man in.

The young man stepped in, turned, and then stopped dead.

David shut the door and looked at him, fully nude and partially erect. He smiled and looked down at himself, then up at his visitor, suggestively. “Come by to return the favor?” he asked. His cock bobbed once in the half-light.

The sound and feel of David’s heavy breath came back to the young man, his hips and pubic region burning as if it were happening again, there on the couch like it had a week earlier.

“No,” he said, and shook his head.

David stared at him for a moment, then shrugged. “Okay then, this one’s on me again. But it’s going on your tab.” He reached for the young man’s belt buckle.

The young man backed off, his head still a little light from inhaling too much spray-paint those days ago. “The coal burner…” he said.

“What about her?” David looked at him with a vague concern.

“Her door’s open.”

David looked through the full body glass next to his front door. Sure enough, across the street, the door was hanging open, its full rectangle disappearing in the shadow within the house. He looked back. “What- what do you want me to do about it?”

The young man stood there, his hips still drawn backward as if his belt were still being reached for. He stared at David, then scrambled for a thought, the real impetus for his behavior being a fifty-dollar bill in his pocket, one given to him with a message to send. “The sand nigger isn’t home,” he said, suddenly, repeating what he was told, word-for-word.

David stared at him. Then craned his neck into the sunlight to look outside again. Then looked back. 

“He’s in Lebanon,” the young man continued.

“Lebanon?”

The young man nodded.

“How do you know?” David asked. He had meant it as nothing, not even from a genuine confusion, just a question to stall for time, to give him enough space to think.

Either way, the young man was flustered. “I heard it…” he said.

David wasn’t paying attention, only staring at that rectangle of black, sitting there on the face of that sheet of suburban white. He thought of the woman, her beautiful body, the unruly cheeks of her ass, its hue sharing the cheeks of her face, and then he thought of the corn-rows rolled into her hair above it, and he scowled, feeling the full negative space which existed between this white woman as he would have preferred her and this white woman as she actually was, all “moolied” up and obscene by the evils of this age of tooth and iron; her pure body desecrated by those dirtbrown hips, her ass gripped by a monkey’s palm, her beautiful white features pushed to the lowly dirt below by that monkey foot, its sole, and the palm of that hand being, ironically, the only part of him that was “white.” David’s eagerness to enjoy her for her beauty and, likewise, to punish her for her deep, deep betrayal to her own people were both so strong, and the thrill of using force, the full weight of his musculature and form, against an object weaker than himself, so exhilarating, that part of him, some low-IQ impulse, only drove him to reach for his cabinet, pull out not only his luger, but the ski-mask beside it, and to go across the street to make an example, all day long, of the turncoat which existed there, innocent and naïve (even to her own crimes), within.

Instead though, priding himself on his supposed ‘white impulse control,’ he only stood there, staring at that little black rectangle under the eaves of that beautiful pearl across the street. He would have looked much more dumbfounded if he weren’t squinting against the sun.

“I heard some groaning inside,” the young man suddenly said, just remembering his line. “Maybe she needs some help.” He forgot he should say it with a bit more panic or urgency. He looked down at David’s naked hips, seeing that thick cock throb. “Maybe you could impress her if you—”

David shot for the door, but before he could pull it open, the young man reached out. David felt hands on his naked stomach. He looked down to see his own hard cock. “Oh,” he said. “Oh yeah.” He turned around, giving the young man a spank on his bottom in thanks, before heading to his bedroom. The young man watched him go, seeing the tensing muscular cheeks of that white ass disappear down the hall. Then he turned and looked at the television. A giant ass was there, this one much more feminine and loose, and it rode a giant cock.

He remembered the ass of the woman across the street, only having ever seen it clothed. But even still, he couldn’t ignore the similarities between it and what existed there on screen. The money sat heavy in his pocket, and he wondered as to why it was put there. He thought of your eyes, big and wild, perhaps a bit nervous, looking into his with a strange gravity. “Just get him over here,” you had said. “I need him here.”

The bedroom door opened and David came out, his shorts on. The young man knew he was wearing no underwear within those shorts, that that cock just flopped around in there. David didn’t even look at the young man as he passed, just patting him on the ass again. “Sit down and enjoy yourself,” he said, as he wrestled on his shoe. “Hold down the bunker.” He grabbed the doorknob. He motioned toward the screen with his head. “Enjoy the Eva Braun of our time.” A darkness came over his features. “Even if she did switch sides…” He stepped out and then slammed the door shut.

The young man stood there, watching David cross the street through the window. David stood at the doorway of your home, looked within, and seemed to call a few times. He then grabbed the doorframe, leaned in further, and bellowed. He tilted his head for a reply, but none came. He then just stared into the darkness for what felt like a while. The young man could imagine those butt-cheeks tensing within his shorts. Even more, he cold imagine the cock which bobbed perilously, as if over the pit of its own anticipation. Then, suddenly, David, as if in defiance of the anticipation, stepped inside the black rectangle.

The young man stared into that darkness. Then it was gone. The door had slammed shut, leaving only a pearly suburban façade, no different than the face of any other house in the neighborhood. The birds chirped outside.

He turned back to the screen. A glorious ass sat there for him, unobstructed, riding to its full capability in detailed 4K, so profound an image, one could make out the blemishes and texture, the pink blushing, in each cheek. The video enticed ruthlessly, then it was over, leaving the young man with the blackened reflection of his own face on screen. And then the recommended videos popped up, each with the same blonde star.

One was her with a white man, another with another white man. One was her on the lap of a black man. And another standing hip-to-nude-hip with another white man. The young man turned and saw the remote. He leaned over grabbing it, and before the Smart TV could choose the first video, he pressed down and then down again, until the yellow frame was over the third video. “Alexis Texas: Finally Blacked,” it said. The young man went for his pants, pulling them down. The screen flashed. His white cock flopped out. The video started.

The house smelled vaguely middle-eastern. Phoenician scents crawled the walls and drapes, as if flowers from the other side of the world had been stuffed in the rafters and drywall, and while everything core (and visible) to the house remained mid-western and banal, every few trinkets on the stands, counters, or walls were enough to displace his sense of which country he was in. That’s all it took, was just a drop or two, and everything else was polluted by its presence, as if he could look out of any window now and see strange minarets or even ziggurats littering the distance. He was too on edge, too shaky with adrenaline to scowl. He had called twice more, even after closing the front door behind him, making sure he did everything he could to establish that he was no intruder.

The stairway to the second floor was to his left. He looked up, seeing nothing of note, but part of him was beckoned upward, even by the strange intimacy of his presence there. Even still he continued. He could see the sliding glass door to the backyard. A lawn chair sitting there on pavement, overlooking an, again, strangely polluted garden; wild fruits and strange miniature trees among the familiar tomatoes and carrots, as if the former were an infection pilfering from soil which never belonged to them.

He was beyond the hall now, standing in full daylight, but still in the privacy of suburban walls, and with the high suburban half-square of fence outside making it feel all the more cloistered, the home its own little Shangri-la. Something caught his peripheral. Something large and round. He turned.

He stood there for a moment, his mouth open. It had been the first time in a long time where his face hadn’t worn the barest hints of a scowl.

On the couch, resting there silently, was a face, one he was only used to seeing from afar. Above that face was a head of hair, pulled into foreign shape by braids, making those facial features, still beautiful, seem strange in light of it. And attached to all of that, sharing in its fate, was a thick and voluptuous body, looking thicker, more voluptuous, up close. He followed it down, the strap-covered shoulder of her back, smooth and tan, down her narrow waist, then the sudden expanding surprise of her hips, her ass, hugged tightly, almost impossibly, by jean-shorts, then the bare thick-smoothness of her thighs, all the way down her bare calves, and her soles, which almost reflecting the shape of the rest of her in miniature.

He only stared for a moment. Not saying anything, not wanting to wake her up. Not just out of fear that he’d be caught trespassing, but not wanting to ruin the moment, just being able to watch her there, so up close now that he could see her breathe. There was silence in the house for a long while. He had walked up a few silent steps to admire closer, and then walked up a few steps more.

He was standing over her, large and imposing in his wife-beater and shorts, for a while, just staring at her, less as a foreign sex object, a distant point of lust, or as a turncoat race-traitor now, and more as his own object to protect, a point of pride and an example of the beauty of his race. Her face, like the soles of her feet, was full of hills and valleys, curves, and lines, and shapes, which all contrasted, yet contributed beautifully to one solid whole. Such proportion and symmetry, her toes an exemplar, textbook physical anthropology of a people who were, and would hopefully remain to be—forever. Her hair-style, all of it pulled back, left such a clear view of that broad forehead, a mind within rich with the thought-processes necessary for higher civilization. When he was done with this phrenology, he let his gaze crawl to her shoulder, dainty and feminine, and her back smooth, a skintone unknown everywhere except in Europe and her commonwealth daughters. Her waist narrowed beautifully from there, like a statue of Aphrodite, but with all the nobility of Frieda or Athena. Then lower, her hips leading to that buttocks, huge and delicious and Aryan, its full glory clouded by the denim which kept it from sight. Her thighs were thick and supple, and her calves the same.

He looked back up at her face, shockingly, his eyes stuck themselves there most of all. In it he saw a nobility. One unbeknownst to his family, not even in the beauty of his mother, the raw sexuality of his sister, did any such thing exist. He was certain now. What he had below him wasn’t a loose example of the beauty of his race, it was a premier display of it, she was his superior in all ways, a queen of sorts. In a sane world, she would be his chieftain’s wife. The first lady of his Fuhrer. He almost felt the need to bow to her, in supplication and devotion.

And just as that thought came, his head bent downward, his nostrils flared for a moment. Then flared again. Then his sniffing became conscious. It was that scent. The scent which haunted the house like a will-of-the-whisp. It was here again, richer, he had realized, and then he leaned down, and his eyes flared open themselves when he had traced the source of the aroma.

He stood back up, looking down at the noble thing there, with shock. He could see in her now, like a veil torn form his eyes, the smell like an acid, eating away at his illusions. She was the source of it. Of that smell. That middle-eastern aroma rose from her skin. Worse than the hair, worse than the mannerisms or language of modern and corrupted white-womanhood, visceral, the way smell usually was, it had assaulted him, filling his lungs with the very outrage which sat, unapologetic, upon his palette.

The image of that male body, brown and misshapen, suited to a completely different world, came to him, it resting itself naked and strange on that beautiful shape which lay below.

The scowl was back, and room seemed to scowl with David, even as the world around him seemed silent. The silence was penetrated by the sound of him sucking back spit, and then his lips protruded with a sudden burst.

A big wad of his saliva landing on your mother’s face, his rage taking him here, to a place beyond consequence, a place where no future existed, only eternal present.

And he stood there, confident in his decision until her face finally twitched, and, soon, her eye opened.

He leaned onto his backfoot, almost as if to retreat, but he was frozen there. The eye was affixed to him, hazel and bright, its lashes heavy with spit, but there was something else in them. Something which caused the flight in his bones to fade. He just stood there, staring at the eye which stared back, an eye planted within that field of beauty. And that’s when he saw it there: distance. Separation. Ignorance. Naivete.

She saw him, yet she saw nothing.

And at first, this meant ease for him, subsiding panic, and maybe intrigue, curiosity, or thrill. But instead, as if what lay below him, this savage heap of gorgeousness made flesh, was nothing but a series of emblems, symbols for the epoch, what was, what is, and what would be, he saw in this ignorant eye another epitomizing truth.

He stood there, a foreigner in her house, an intruder, a threat standing above her, and she was, the way they all were, ignorant to it all. Picket signs plastered with “Refugees Welcome,” big breasted mothers dropping their white sons off to school in their minivans, watching little Timmy disappear in a sea of black and brown, and leaving him with nothing but a smile and those supplicating words: “be nice!”; white women in Korean nail salons, under constant criticism by foreign oriental tongues while two black women nearby cluck about white households and their bland food, a smile forming on the little race-traitor’s face, happy to be the source of insult, finding more community there, amongst her enemies, than she ever would in a white, loving household. All the while, those yellow hands work those pink, ignorant toes.

And then this one here, laying here, the height of the paradigm in every way. Her body so rich with sweaty, nightly betrayals that she smelled of it forevermore. Her very ass cheeks, thighs, and toes rich with the sweet smells of Levantine dishes. All of that, all evil, and still laying there, lazily, staring up without a single awareness in the world.

He shut that eye. Shut it with another volley of saliva. Then he leaned down, and with a pink tongue, licked the side of her face.

She tasted sweet. Sweet and foreign and familiar. And with that, his palm came down, nice and unapologetic, landing on the full cheek of her ass, and without asking for permission, not feeling the need, he squeezed.

Her ass protruded between his fingers, big and squishy. He leaned over and kissed the small of her back twice, then her ass. He kissed her ass, rubbing his face in it. Then the back of her thighs, then her calves and even a foot, then he was back up at her ass, and with a sudden violent tear, her whole lower half lifting, her shorts were down, and her ass, big, white and open, sat before him, more glorious in its shape and color than he could have ever imagined it to be.

And just as he feared, it smelled of that same aroma. If anything, it was the very source itself. And soon, his tongue met that source, kissing, licking, sucking. Your mom lay there, spit running down her face, her eye opening, and staring out into nothing, just a hotbed of strange sensations without name or form. She shut her eye again.

He stripped her bare and nude, doing so with a wonderful lack of respect for the clothes which polluted that perfect body.

And then soon, his own body, its white flesh covered in black ink, was bare, and his butt cheeks, in contrast to hers, were tight with stress and rage, while hers sat there, open and relaxed and free, almost larger in their peace.

And he fell onto her, his body taking the very real shape of what he imagined in her usual lover, brown and foreign and disgusting, over her body. He kissed and he licked her face, gyrating on her, feeling her white shoulder blades against his iron cross tattoo, and that gigantic soft ass against his raging prick. No matter how much he pushed, no matter how hard and straight his cock was, there didn’t seem to be any end to this soft fleshy bedding.

He was an animal now, a ravening beast, with all the dignity of a chimp. And her, she was his prey.

And soon, your mom joined the ranks of an elite class of white women: those violated inside the privacy and familiarity of their own little homes.

Her rapist, one of “her own,” lay below her, feeling her on top of him. Feeling her, with an ass bigger than his sister’s, and with thighs smoother, and a prettier face, and a cuter panting which spilled without consciousness from her throat.

He had imagined his sister, with her boyfriend beneath her, a member of the Aryan Disciples, a proud white example of masculinity, fucking his way into David’s flesh and soul through his sister’s beautiful European softness. White cock, white scrotum, peach-fuzzed white thighs, white beard and white lips. David felt his family had been enriched by that beautiful act, and this one here, whether this beautiful idiot could realize it or not, was being enriched by this one.

She was being saved now, even if just for the moment.

Coal-burners and mud-sharks all perished in this moment, the act itself delegitimizing the act of all sexual betrayal to one’s own flesh, all of those sins being washed away by a wave, one not animated by physics, but by the metaphysics which undergirded them.

She was the avatar for all turncoat white women, their asses rich with bitter sins, their thighs thick succulent with the greatest of all transgressions, Betrayal, which condemned Judas, Brutus, and Lucifer himself to frozen eternities of pain seven layers below the crust of the earth.

But your mom though, she was no coal-burner per se, she was a beautiful white lamb spinning over an arab spit. She wasn’t a shark in the mud. She was a pampered tourist, riding a camel near the pyramids, a hijabbed white housewife standing beneath the Petra in awe, mistaking its otherness for brilliance, all the while the cathedrals of France sat home, collecting dust.

Her ass now, through David’s thrust, through the every inch of his electric penis, brimming with rage and joy, was becoming one in sexual union with every Viking Berserker, Frankish Knight, and Saxon General, every Greek hero, and Roman consul, and Holy Roman King, and Frederic, and Adolphus, and Bismark, and even the best of all, the Fuhrer himself.

She was in that eternal bunker, where the last stand for racism, for bigotry, for parochial self-interest, took its final bow and perished by its own will, realizing the jig was up.

But in one last moment of greatness, some resurrected retribution, here it was, the ass that belonged to the white race, that typified it, now, for perhaps the last time, sitting on its own glorious throne. Europa had been returned, even if just for a moment, to its original glory.

Only in the occult pages of some Nazi tome, combed over by the be-spectacled eyes of Himmler in a candlelit Wolfenstein crypt, could the full weight of David’s accomplishment be understood (even if it were looked on with horror).

To the rest of the world though, which had moved on, he could be summed up in one simple word: Rapist.

And perhaps, this was his only true saving grace.

In a world which had evolved, which had seen the light, and moved beyond concerns as shallow as skin color, and as superstitious as bone structure, such hatreds had no place any longer, except beneath stones, and behind trees, and in the cover of distant mountain ranges, ready to be hunted down and slain like some decrepit old beast, one who filled the world with terror and then existed no longer, broken by terror itself.

David’s fantasies were just that: fantasies. No cavalry was coming to save the purity he held so dear. Generations of distance existed between him and those hallowed days, with more generations, coming out of more classrooms, and more social clubs, walked lighter, with smiles at the new world which was approaching, which they imbibed, lived in, and recreated themselves. Their bodies interlocking with bodies of various shades, producing new families beyond any easy ethnic category or distinction.

David was fighting a losing war, for a cause which never should have been to begin with.

But, as you watched him fight this war, watched its final stand, from the darkness within your living room closet, your eyes open and electric, you felt a thrill run through you. Your mom’s ass rode his cock, her cheeks jiggling on it. Her whiteness entwined with the whiteness beneath her, held in place by it. You stared with such wonder. Then you looked down, seeing your cock in the closet darkness, and seeing it without color, hidden in all but shape, within that shadowy embrace. The hand which clutched it, similarly in a world without name.

You looked back up, into the world of color, the world of illusion.

Your mom’s ass, the last bastion of that illusion, whiteness, being destroyed. And your father, the proud arab patriarch, in a kitchen back home with family, having no power over the moment. There was no race here. No culture. No class. No religion. No dividing lines. Only one glorious shape being used, violated, and penetrated by another contrasting glory. The way it had always been. Sexual union, whether consensual or unconsensual, being the great coming together, the unification of Man (ironically using Woman, Man’s greatest expression of itself).

You had to stop tugging your cock. It was about to blow, and you needed it as hard as it could be. All for the bravery of what would come next.

Even still though, those words flashed in your mind. “What is he?”

It was now, looking at your mom’s fat jiggling ass, disappearing into it, that you knew what you were.

Pure white cum dripped down the black crack of your mom’s ass.

As it did, her assailant laying beneath her, finding sleep in his own exhaustion, the closet door cracked open. A shadowy figure, with shape but without color, slowly stepped out.

David awoke with the sweetest sensation, and what he thought was a sweet smell (until he remembered what it was) close against his flaring nostrils. He leaned forward. Your mom lay on him, still holding tight, her lips closed softly, her eyes the same. He kissed his rescued queen on her lips, pulling back to admire her beauty beneath that horrible hair.

Then he noticed something in his peripheral. He looked down at the coffee table. Sitting there, its front cover bobbed slightly up off the first page, was a photo book.

He stared at it for a moment, it being similar to the one he had back home, his book of “Abominations,” sitting there with just as much cruel tangy energy as the pistol which sat loaded next to it.

This one sat here though, as if it had always existed there for him to read.

He leaned forward, your mom cradled against his shoulder, and took the book in his fingers. He embraced the cover with the flat of his white hand, then opened it.

Your mother appeared, many times, on the page, ten years earlier, still shapely and gorgeous, in some ways more so, in other ways less, as she stood with you or around you, with your father dimming one side of the occasional photograph, with you sitting there, young, blowing out birthday candles, or shouldering a wooden baseball bat, looking like a faded version of your father, or a dirtied version of your mother.

He smiled as he held the very subject of these photos in his arms. He grabbed her ass and gripped it hard, possessively. Then he flipped to an earlier page, finding more photos, illuminating the life he had penetrating into. Your mom smiled on every page, the beauty of her nudity only hinted by the shape of her. He held her and her nudity now, his, just like her every recorded memory.

He flipped the page again, many pages at once.

And then he was frozen.

His hand was still on her ass, his fingers against its crack.

Sitting on the page, ten years even earlier from the photos he had seen, was your mom, before ballooning out into the beauty she became, herself before a birthday cake with a small number of candles on it. Next to her was her fair-skinned father. On her other side was a woman, unmistakably her mother, both in face and in body, in some ways even more so, with much more of a tan. Beside that photograph was another. Your mom standing there, her dad’s hands on one shoulder, her mother’s on the other, and behind them all, four grandparents. Your mom’s father’s parents were a white-haired pleasant-faced man and woman of indeterminable European ancestry, generically white. On the left, was your mom’s parents. The mother was almost without any shape, pleasant and white-haired, and still with some beauty which had faded, leaving only its barest edges. The man, also handsome, had black hair, peppered with grey and white, its texture curly and short above his broad nose and thick-set lips.

David sat there, staring at the page for a moment, looking down at the little girl who existed as its source, her smile familiar. She lay there, all grown-up now, resting with her full weight on his shoulder, his hand numb with the sensation of her ass.

He flipped one page earlier. An old photo sat there, sepia-toned and worn. It was of a black man. A purely black man standing next to a purely white woman. They were in a suit jacket and dress. They were getting married. This was their wedding photo. Unmistakably. Taken at a time when such things were of the highest taboo.

And in the next photograph was their offspring, young, handsome, black haired, without the peppered grey and white. Just curly black hairs, above that broad nose and thickset lips. His skin a cocoa brown, looking exactly like both parents.

Your mom nestled deeper into his shoulder.

He just stared at the page.

His grip slowly loosened from her ass.

The day was quiet. The birds outside chirped. The neighborhood, suburban and cloistered, was sheltered from any internal melodrama. Even the melodrama which occurred within the privacy of one’s mind.

David pushed his hips away, about to set your mom down, when she suddenly moved in her body’s need for rest, her giant ass cheek, and the cracked between them, brushing against his cock. He sat there for a moment, feeling the sensation, its large mongrelized shape, texture, and weight. He moved again and it brushed his tip again.

He stopped trying to move.

Suddenly his hand found that ass again. It gripped.

The white flesh, with 1/8^th of something foreign inherit to it, baked within its very bread, spilled through his white fingers.

His white cock slowly pushed itself deep within her mostly white pussy. And as if he were none-the-wiser, he began to thrust.

You stood there at the party, a solo cup of beer in your fingers. You were nursing it. Like your mom had told you: “Don’t drink yourself silly,” she had said. “That’s the way you get into trouble. Trouble you won’t even remember.” A vision of her ass riding that cock flashed into your mind. “But other people will sure remember it. That’s for sure.” You nodded your head. “Tell you what, if they try to push you, just tell them it’s against your religious beliefs.” You smiled.

Before coming, you had been on your bedroom floor, your forehead pressed against the mat below you, meeting its embrace, as a statue of the Virgin Mary, her feet pushing a snake, some ancient evil, down into place, subduing it with her divine feminine beauty. Beside the Virgini Mary, your laptop sat open, taking equal precedent. On it was the moving image of your mom, nude in prayer up to a similar icon. You mouthed your own personal words, feeling peace come to you as you did.

You then got up, rolled up your carpet, moved to the Virgin Mary statue and kissed its feet, then you kissed the images of your mom’s ass on your laptop screen and shut it closed.

You stood there a few hours later, only slightly uneasy at the party, but that was just jitters. You felt no angst about yourself, about who you were, what you were, or why. You were you. That was enough.

Suddenly, probing into your security, was a few soft fingers against your elbow. You turned over to see a beautiful white face beneath blonde hair.

“Hello!” Jill said. “Sorry,” she smiled at recognizing your surprise. “But I’m in your chemistry class. I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed me.”

You said nothing, only smiling back.

“I apologize if this is too forward, but you just have such an interesting look. Wait, wait, don’t tell me.” She turned to set her beer on the counter then turned back to you with an eager expression, her hands clasped, her beautiful eyes held tight with a squint. “Mexican,” she said. “You’re Mexican.”

You stared at her, struggling for a response.

“Right?”

Suddenly, you just nodded your head.

“I knew it!”

When she reached back over for her beer, she knocked it onto the floor. “Whoops!” She said and laughed. As she bent over to pick it up, you looked down at her ass, flat and sweet and beckoning.

That night, that ass sat before you, naked and pink, as you thrust your cock inside her. Your cock plunged in and out of her, and as you saw it do so, contrasted with that pure pink, you smiled. White, arab… Mexican, you thought. I’ll be whatever you want me to be, sweetheart. Whatever you want me to be.

That very same night, your father sat on his couch, nude, poking his hips out, as your mom sucked his cock and massaged his thighs. Across the street, a muscular man sat with his young friend, the two of them nude, their eyes set on the television, watching Alexis Texas ride a thick cock, one as dark as any tattoo, no matter of what.

Just as the two partners in crime were about to reach orgasm, your father about to feel the very same bliss across the street, you kneeled there, thrusting into that flat ass, feeling your balls begin to contract.

“Agghhh!”

You felt the world fade into a colorless oblivion.

And then--sweet, sweet release.