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Writer's picturebluvelvet99

An Open Invitation (The Favorite)


“Well, hello!” Your mom said, doing so with such a joyous sing-song that even through his joy and his confusion, he felt a subtle pull in toward the warmth of the home she represented. He looked past her, into an empty living room. She said your name, doing so in the form of a question.

 

He looked up at her from the bottom of the stoop, bowled over by how pretty she was, shocked by it.

 

“You’re here to see him?” she asked again.

 

He stared at her for a moment, the lower half of her body suddenly emerging within his awareness as something not only of note, but of superlative example. Though he noticed this entirely in his lower peripheral, as he was looking her directly into her inquisitive eyes and didn’t dare look away.

 

“Yeah,” he said.

 

Her inquisitive mouth transformed into a smile. “Well, he isn’t home just yet.” She backed away from the doorway, giving him, without realizing it, a better glimpse of her body, in a state of jiggling motion no less. “Come in, come in.” She motioned him into the open space of the home.

 

He mounted the steps.

 

Sunlight shone in through the window and he stepped inside.

 

“Would you like a drink?” she asked, passing him on the way to the kitchen. “I have all kinds.”

 

He watched her as she went, noting her ass, feeling a thrill at seeing it, in this venue and under this context. “Uh, no,” he said. “I don’t need a drink.”

 

“You sure?” she asked. He was looking at the back of her head, just a wall of black hair. She grabbed the handle of the fridge and pulled it open. She dipped her head beyond its door, the rest of her still visible from where he approached. He watched her on his way to the living room, the dividing line between it and the kitchen being nothing more than a solitary counter island. “We have iced tea. We have lemonade. We have… water. Soda. Anything?”

 

He touched the armrest of the couch with his fingertips, as if claiming it, his arm extended. He was looking over at her bent-over ass, its shaping and reshaping, as her raven-haired head ducked and swayed within her refrigerator. “Um, actually. I wouldn’t mind a glass of milk.”

 

Her body stopped moving. Her ass sat there, perfect and still, as if it were painted to be. Then her face appeared from behind her left cheek, startling him. She wore a look of bewilderment. “Milk?”

 

He smiled. “Milk,” he said. He subtly puffed out his chest. “I hit the school gym during my break period. I could probably use the protein.” (He could still feel that skinny wrist within his grip, that fragile elbow with the other, twisting both, just to hear that voice find higher pitch.)

 

She stared at him for a moment. Then a smile found her face. “Milk it is,” she said, and she turned back into the fridge.

 

He noted the way her muscles and fat, pronounced in her butt cheeks and thighs, reacted to the motion of her active upper body, and he admired it until her head swung back out, a jug of milk, near-full, now in her hand.  She didn’t look at him, though they now faced each other, and she put the jug down on the kitchen island.

 

She was smiling. “In a glass? Or will you be taking the whole jug?”

 

The statement made him take in her body, comparing it to the rich fullness of the jug. “Normally I’d drink the whole thing,” he said. “But I wouldn’t want to leave my best friend –“ He looked up into her eyes, his own eyes smiling. -“and his mother – without milk. I’ll take a glass, please.”

 

“A glass it is,” she said. She turned around and grabbed the cupboard handle with a single finger. “Though it usually goes bad before we finish it. ‘Your best friend’ doesn’t really drink milk. And I…” she pulled out a glass. “…apparently don’t drink it fast enough.”

 

Could have fooled me, he thought, looking down at her healthy ass. But when he thought about you, your frail and defenseless body, and your pale aspect, despite your half-hispanic heritage, he smiled at knowing a little more about the lore of his favorite victim, his most consistent and lucrative cash cow.

 

“He doesn’t, hey?” He shrugged. “I guess I’ll have to knock him into shape then.” He smiled to himself.

 

“You’ll have to,” she replied, not sensing the malice in his words, as charitable toward their intention as any polite human should be to another. She tipped the jug. The milk fell into it in a beautiful cascade, pure and unbroken.

 

It wouldn’t be the first thing I knocked into him, he thought. And it won’t be the last. Not if I have any say, at least.

 

“Here,” she said, setting the jug down. “Just as you ordered.” She pushed the glass with her fingertips and it slid across to the other end of the counter. He approached counter’s edge, watching as the glass crawled toward him.

 

The glass found its way into his palm. He watched his own fingers as they slowly, sensually, wrapped around it.

 

She smiled, and then leaned over to her right, inadvertently giving him another moment to admire her body without being noticed, and then she grabbed a bottle which sat at the counter’s end. She opened it, and when she did, her brows furrowed at the way the cap gave. She looked down at it. “Did I already open…” She looked inside. She shook her head as if everything was alright and then lifted the bottle.

 

He considered the bottle as she did. “’Protein shake,’” he read.

 

She nodded and swallowed. “Yup.”

 

“There’s a lot of protein in that one…”

 

She laughed. “I’d offer you one by this was my last.” She back up and stepped on the pedal of the garbage can. She dropped the cap inside and then let the lid fall flat over it. “But like I said. You can have as much milk as you like.” She winked at him.

 

Part of him, that male part, the one which was quick to sniff out opportunities, and even quicker to pounce on them, began to buzz.

 

“You staying in shape for your husband?” he asked.

 

“No,” she said, taking another sip. She wiped her mouth with her forearm. “I don’t have a husband.”

 

His right eyebrow, and the right corner of his mouth, raised as one.

 

“I’m staying in shape for my boyfriend,” she said.

 

They both dropped, his eyebrow at once, his mouth slowly after.

 

“It’ll be our ten-year anniversary this weekend.”

 

He looked down at his glass of milk. He could see his reflection, stretched and distorted, in its white, glassy surface. He looked as disappointed as he felt. It was an expression he recognized, and relished in, when seeing it in the face of others. Seeing it now, on his own face, offered no sense of awareness or irony.

 

“Plus I’ll need a lot of protein to carry him out after a night of drinking.” She flexed her right arm, jokingly, doing so as if she were an Amazonian. She then lifted the bottle back to her mouth, and as he reflected on the moment, watching his own reflected white expression change in micro-degrees every second, she finished it. She then turned around – he didn’t even look up to get a look at her ass this time – and she stepped to the garbage can, stepped on its pedal, and dropped in the spent bottle.

 

“Protein gets me bloated,” she said.

 

And with that, he again looked up at her, seeing her delicious shape, longing for it all the more now that he knew how unattainable it was, chasing what didn’t belong to him being the deepest part of his nature, as if god gave him the very freedom he himself was never allowed.

 

Not bloated, he thought. Thick though.

 

She looked across the living room, out her front window. “Hmm,” she said.

 

He followed her gaze to the window, surprised to see nothing on its other side except the grass of the front lawn and the driveway.

 

“He’s usually home by now.” She looked at him, her eyes inquisitive again. “You sure you two weren’t supposed to meet somewhere? Somewhere other than here, I mean.”

 

He stared out the window at that void, that personification of your very lacking presence. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “We were supposed to meet here.” I was very clear about that, he thought. I thought we would be alone here. He clenched his fist, which was hidden from her by the countertop, against his thigh. He remembered his list of demands to you, starting each with a thrust against the back of your neck, assuming it would drive each point home, also just enjoying the way it made the black hair on the back of your head flutter. He could imagine what your expression looked like on the other side. In some ways, imagining was better than witnessing.

 

“Hm,” she said. “Naughty, naughty boy, my son is. Well…”

 

He looked down at his hand. Her fingers rested on his knuckles. He looked up at her. She smiled at him, with warmth but without sexuality, though sexuality seemed to be something she was continually doomed to exude, despite her intentions.

 

“…I’m sure he’ll be here any minute.” She stood up, her back straight, her body almost archetypal, goddess-like as a representation of female beauty, both distinctly Hispanic, and still somehow universal. She stretched. “I have a date to get ready for.”

 

She turned around and he watched her, taking her in, as thick against his sight as the milk to his taste buds. Her giant ass disappeared within the hallway, and then he sat there, alone, while he heard the tap run, and plastic bristles running through the strands of her hair. The intimacy of it itself being enough to arouse him, though he couldn’t hear anything approaching clothing being removed or added, nor did the apparent open bathroom door imply as much, he could easily imagine her in there, under different circumstances, undressing to nude, bathing, then dressing back up into decency again. The thought of it was a delight and a frustration that ran through him as sludge-like and sweet as syrup.

 

He looked out that front window. And, just as before, there was nobody on that lawn.

 

His fist not only clenched now, but it beat softly against his thigh. “If he’s trying to avoid me,” he murmured under his breath. He looked at the hallway. Sounds of busy rustling still came from the bathroom. I’m going to charge him interest, and then I’m going to take it out his ass.

 

He considered your face, its every contour and expression; its terrified eyes, its blushing cheeks, and quivering lip. He saw now, in that loathsome, pathetic visage, vague traces of your mom’s beauty, and this only set him off more. Your mom’s shape, its impossibility and perfection, flashed in his mind, and, unbeknownst to him, only added to his aggravation.

 

He heard something drop in the bathroom, and he knew, he just knew, that your mom had bent over, rather than kneeled, to pick it back up again.

 

Out of all his repeat marks, you were the only one to never give him any trouble. And that made you both his favorite, and the one that he held in the deepest contempt. No hassle meant easy money, every time he asked, but it could only add to the disgust, visceral and overpowering, it had nurtured for you within him.

 

The sensation of your hand, trembling and cold, placing that inert wad of money inside his, emerged suddenly in his awareness, and he gripped his fist harder, trying to crush out the feeling of it.

 

He then heard a ding. He looked up to the hallway, realizing it was a phone. Your mom had stopped moving, and he listened to the silence, wondering at its purpose. He could imagine your mom looking down at her phone, which he imagined, with equal clarity, sitting on the sink counter.

 

Then he heard her moving. His heart picked up speed as he anticipated her coming back out, but instead he heard her moving further down the hallway, being teased by the slight and short-lived hints of her shadow. He heard a door open, soft, bare-footed steps against carpet, and then he heard a drawer sliding open. “Hm,” she said.

 

Then he heard her footsteps again.

 

His heart picked up the pace.

 

She emerged from out the hallway, her hair done up, a vision so beautiful, her mouth and eyes smiling, he hadn’t even noticed the box in her hand until she placed it on the counter. “Here you go,” she said.

 

Just before she could turn around to head back, he said “what?” causing her to stop in place as suddenly as if she had been tugged.

 

She looked at him, her body turned to its side, a foot in either world.

 

“What is this?” he asked, not even touching it.

 

“I don’t know,” she said, furrowing her brow. She lifted her phone, looking at it again to express that you had texted her. “He told me to give it to you. Says ‘you’d understand.’”

 

He looked down at it, not understanding. There was a note attached to the box. He grabbed it between his thumb and forefinger.

 

Your mom looked down at it, then up at his face inquisitively. “What does it say?”

 

He looked over it once, furrowed his brow. His lips slowly opened. “’Don’t open until after bedtime.’”

 

He looked up at her. She was still wearing her smile, but her brow was knitting itself with equal amounts confusion as his own. She opened her mouth, about to say something, maybe ask a question.

 

Then, suddenly, within a jarring second, she dropped out of view.

 

She fell, as if a marionette whose strings had been severed, behind the counter that separated their bodies. He heard her soft form fall to the ground below, it sounding erotic even in collapse.

 

He stared now at what would have appeared to him, if he didn’t know any better, to be an empty kitchen.

 

He sat up, and then stood, and he leaned forward, with both hands flat on the counter, stepping on the stool’s footrest to get a better vantage. There, on the other end, lying with a peace in her shut-eyed face unbefitting the violence of her fall, she lay there.

 

He ran around the counter, terrified, almost fearing, in an irrational second, that he had done something wrong. That he had brought some illness into the home, or had said some key word, and deactivated her with it the way one would a machine.

 

He kneeled down, jostling her by her shoulder, her flesh shaking with her in syncopation. He was terrified enough now that he barely even noticed it, only keeping his sights on her face. The peace within it gave him some degree of calm, and her soft breathing, unlabored and full, allowed him to lean back slightly. And then, only then, he took in the full view of her body, itself wrapped, imprisoned almost, within the tyranny of that green dress. Her shoulders and throat bare, along with her thighs, calves, and feet. She aroused him there, effortlessly, so much so that the fat of her body, without coming anywhere near him, almost seemed to rub against his worry, massaging it away. Even still, he stood up. He looked around, looking past the empty bottle she had drank from, looking past the box which sat there, apparently for him. He reached down for his phone, and as he thought about dialing 911, he wondered at what he was going to tell them. “Woman unconscious,” he thought. “She’s still breathing. She’s not injured. Doesn’t seem to be in any pain. No, no. She was just standing there, when, all of a sudden, she was fast asleep. That’s right. I didn’t even get to tell her a bedtime sto-“

 

His thinking stopped, itself now absorbed by only one word.

 

Bedtime…

 

He looked at the box, its note tied to its lid innocuously. He rounded the counter with his hands guiding him against the tabletop. The plastic bottle was knocked over by his frantic movement, he could hear its stuttering rattle without seeing it. He grabbed the box, examining its message again.

 

“Don’t open until after bedtime.” He looked at the opposite edge of the counter, your mom obscured beyond it.

 

He looked back down at the box in reflection for a moment, then, all at once, he started tearing it open.

 

Inside, a solitary note sat, itself folded into four. He opened it, apprehensively, not sure what to expect, but fearing it, whatever it was, due to the nature of the situation.

 

The open note looked back up at him.

 

He glared at it for a second. Not sure of what he was reading. As if to assure himself it was real, he began reading it again, this time out loud.

 

“Your payment isn’t here. I’m sorry. I’m never this late usually. The other times, you always told me that if I paid late, I’d have to pay with interest.”

 

He swallowed, adjusting the paper, its edges smudging with his sweat.

 

“You never told me how much the interest was. But I figured it’s probably best to overpay than to underpay, that way I can know I’m no longer in debt. So… I’ve sent you your payment. It should be there for you by the time you’re reading this. My mom should be there to give it to you. If you don’t see it, be a little more creative with where you look. It’s very hard to miss. After all…”

 

His breathing stopped.

 

“…it’s wrapped in green.”

 

His mouth was dry. That’s what he thought he had read. He crawled over the counter, just until his waist found its edge, and he looked down at its other side, seeing your mom there, resting, your messenger. With her body, laying inert there without explanation…. Entirely wrapped in the tight-fitting form of her dress.

 

Her green dress.

 

He leaned further. The empty bottle sitting there, the one she had emptied inside herself, was tipped by his trembling fingers. It rolled to the table’s edge and fell, falling on your mom’s ass and bouncing off, hitting the fridge and then rolling back, settling by her sleeping foot.

 

The sound of its rolling was the only sound in the house. When it stopped, there were no more.

 

At least until he gulped.

 

He slid off the side of the counter, and then rounded it to look at your mom. She was silent, breathing. The round underside of her ass, accentuated by green folds, facing him, along with the undersides of her thighs, and the soles of her feet,

 

He looked back down and continued reading the note. “Just be careful with moving your payment,” it said. “She’s a lot heavier than she looks.”

 

The note fell softly to the ground. As it did, the sounds of him nearly snarling, crawling rapidly along the ground, served as its soundtrack.

 

He grabbed her by her dress, jostling her, this time with the phat of her body in mind. She jiggled there. He lifted her by the hem of her dress, expecting to pull it upward, over the ass he desired with such intensity, thirsting for it as if it was his everything after only seeing it for the first time ten minutes ago. Instead, the weight of her thighs, and the ass it hid, caused her to lift with his tug. She fell back down, jiggling all over as her hips met tile.

 

Instead of trying again, he gripped her ass, feeling his palm fill gloriously with it, so gloriously he groaned at the mere touch. He then jiggled it, spanked it, and jiggled it some more. He leaned down, kissing the side of her face, and then licking it. Her eye twitched at the sensation, but she was still unmoved. He almost expected her to taste like caramel, but somehow, the taste of natural salt along his tongue was so much better.

 

“Oh god,” he said, looking down at her. “Oh my fucking god…”

 

 

Outside, the birds chirped. Cars passed. Mr. Henry, old, kind, and wise, looked at the house as he passed it on the opposite sidewalk with his dog Charlie. He always took a look at it as he did, just in case he’d catch his favorite neighbor outside, decorating its front lawn, or behind the glass of her window watering flowers. His every glimpse of her a treat. Even telling his lovely wife so. She would laugh and hit him on the shoulder with a loving palm, knowing that the woman in question was out of her elderly husband’s league. “Let him dream,” she’d tell herself. “That’s the lot of men. To want everything, but to get almost none of it.”

 

She then would feel her husband’s arms, once strong, wrap around her shoulder, his face leaning in for a kiss.

 

Almost none of it, She thought. “Almost…”

 

He leaned down to kiss her on her cheek.

 

 

Your mom’s dress sat aside, ripped to shreds, instead of unwrapped, by his impatient fingers. As it sat there in tatters, sans your mom, her personality, her shape or her weight, the sounds of unalloyed joy (“oh god, I can’t believe it. I can’t fucking believe it…”), kissing and flesh running past flesh filled the otherwise quiet house.

 

Your mom:



She smelled good. Not just nice and clean, washed thoroughly for her boyfriend, but also with a faint hint of cinnamon. Her buttcrack between her two cheeks was as large as he expected it to be, perhaps more so. And the buttcheeks themselves, beyond their impressive, almost too-good-to-be-true size, had the perfect amount of give. He leaned in to nuzzle it again.



“Protein,” he said out loud. He meant it both possible ways: that it was fed with protein and that it was protein.

 

She was nourished and nourishing.

 

He looked from the marvel of her ass up to her face. She smiled back at him, though he could see in her eyes there was no “her” there to speak of.

 

“I’m going to pummel this ass,” he said to her, giving it a spank.

 

She continued smiling. The moment, with her gawking expression, reminding him of the deaf kid he once badgered verbally for ten minutes straight on the bus, doing so without the “deaf retard” ever realizing what was happening, being even deaf to those who tried to inform him.

 

“This spick ass,” he said, giving it another spank.

 

As he stood before her, he began to thrust, holding her head in place, doing it all impulsively, until his crotch pressed against her face, pinning its fabric between the hardening stiffness of his cock, and the giving softness of her cheek.

 

He held her there for a moment, shutting his eyes in disbelief and joy. Then he opened them and got to work removing those two sets of fabric which separated his arousal from her face.

 

 

Mr. Henry, sitting home in his living room, his dog Charlie resting on his lap, wondered at what your mom was doing now, doing so as his wife prepared dinner in the kitchen. The thought of your mom’s face, its every blessed inch and contour, filled his imaginings, and he wondered, doing so with great warmth, what that face was up to now.



The pleasure was immeasurable. If he loved anything in this world (he loved very little), it was watching his own cock being sucked by a beautiful woman. The last time it had happened was with Jordyn, your crush (though she was nowhere near as beautiful as your mom was, in body or in face). Since then, he had only gotten head from Julian’s sister Peggy, getting it in the woods after convincing her that he’d buy her a new house if she did (girls with down-syndrome weren’t known for being especially discerning).



As he looked down at your mom, watching her service his cock, her beautiful face being filled with it, he wondered if Jonathan would have done the same, that one time he had caught him after school, and the guy had been so terrified, he promised to suck his cock if he left him alone. He convinced the snivelling idiot that he could, waiting for him to get down on his hands and knees, wiping away tears, before backhanding him and going about telling everyone he could about the story.

 

Your mom, a grown woman, one with a house, a car, a career, and a family, was now in the same position as that snivelling loser Jonathan, but she was going the full way.



Your mom’s ass jiggled, shockingly similar to the way Henry’s did that one time when he pushed him off and managed to run and, somehow, gain distance. His own waist and belt, which had been pulled down to his ankles, tripped him. When they caught him crawling among the leaves, they continued doing what they always intended to. They began shoving pinecones up his ass.

 

He turned your mom around, the sway of her ass obliterating that memory as if it were wiping away sand. If he had known what this day was going to be like, he would have brought pinecones.

 

“Jesus,” he murmured, recalling what you had written in that letter. “’With interest’ is right.”

 

He pushed the only ‘pinecone’ he had inside her.



The pleasure was exactly what he expected it to be. Exactly what he needed. Which meant: exactly what he deserved. You had shocked and surprised him this day, but the universe and fate had not. He always knew he had something like this in his cards, he just had to. He was the main character in this world after all. And the main character always gets the girl. They get everything. At least that’s what he took away from every movie or TV show he had ever watched. The responsibility that came with doing good, the quid pro quo of it, was invisible to him. It occupied no space in his sense of justice. All he knew was that he was good, and the world around him was filled with obstacles that obstructed his path without warrant. As he thrusted into your mom, feeling his cock push past every obstacle, physical or abstract, he began to fill with pride (which was synonymous with justice in his mind).

 

He had always had fantasies of doing something like this, and had only resisted due to calculation, not out of any guilt. He remembered now with great irony, the time he convinced Stevey that he was planning to rape someone, the middle-aged housewife who lived at the end of their mutual street. He begged Stevey for a week, telling him that he couldn’t pull it off without his help, that he needed Stevie to bring along his dad’s van (which would make them anonymous because Stevie’s dad lived elsewhere), so they could do it. Stevey, after giving in, was a shaking mess, both nervous and thrilled by the suggestion, almost to the point where he could barely talk. After getting the poor kid to swear to hit, he sucker punched him in the face, using the fact that he was a rapist lying-in-wait as justification for it, making sure everyone else knew about Stevie’s proclivities, shouting them from the rooftops as if it were a public service.



Your mom’s flesh slapped below him, its sound so pronounced it echoed throughout the otherwise empty house. He was so glad it was empty.



Your mom lay below him now, completely malleable to his will, no different than Alie, that time he had found her by herself, examining an ants’ nest through her thick-rimmed spectacles. He surprised even himself when he kicked her in her hip. She fell to the ground, and he mounted her back, lifting his fist to swing. If she wouldn’t have covered her head, he wouldn’t have, but once she had some degree of protection, he thought it couldn’t hurt. His fist hit the back of her hand, pushing it into her skull, and she screamed. He got up off her after that, but he stared down at her crying mass. He wondered if he had gone too far, and he told himself that he wouldn’t do it again, but he couldn’t say he regretted it either. More than anything, he thought it was probably a good thing he finally knew what it felt like to give a girl a beating, and if it wasn’t Alie, it would have had to be someone else.



Strangely, his thoughts were occasionally invaded by the thought of fucking Alie for a while after that moment. It wasn’t that she was much to look at (she had a huge lower lip and constantly-squinting eyes) but because of the energy he felt when he was close against her that day.

 

Your mom, as he looked down at her the same way he looked down at Alie on the grass that day, made him feel something similar, but with her beauty and shape, the violence of that need was much more pronounced. He refrained from punching the back of her head, or even her torso, already having struck beating a woman off his bucket list.



Another memory, one conjured from the specifics of the moment, came to him. The way your mom existed there below him, her face turned away, made him think of Ghurpal’s sister, the one he threatened to fuck before kicking Ghurpal straight in his testicles for being Indian. He laughed to himself out loud thinking about it. “Except she smells like cinnamon,” he said now, aloud to no one in particular, only being answered back by the sound of their flesh meeting and separating. “Not like curry.”



He smacked the cheek of her ass, the same way he smacked the cheek of Todd’s face in class, doing so just seconds before the teacher came in, daring Todd with a smile to mention it. Daring anyone in the class to squeal to the teacher. No one spoke up. Todd least of all. He just sat there, his bottom lip quivering, a solitary tear falling down the red, stinging mass of his cheek.

 

Your mom’s cheek, not knowing that it should feel embarrassed, defeated, by this moment, shone red in the shape of a hand print through its deep brown momentarily, and then faded back to its original purity.



He wondered if Zobaida looked like this below her dense clothing. He had seen her hair once, having tugged her hijab off as she passed him behind the gymnasium. She shrieked, running for it as it blew through the dry grass. He had felt a little bad for that one. Not because it was wrong, but because he realized she looked kind of cute with her butterscotch strands of hair flowing through the outer sea of black. He probably should have been nice to her, just in case.



Your mom’s ass, so gigantic and full, looked the way he remembered (and he knew he remembered with exaggeration) Carl’s sister. He had bullied Carl, years ago, into inviting him to the Bible Week festivities being held by his church. He remembered being in one of the change rooms, getting changed into the robes of Barnabas, when he realized that Carl’s sister had gotten into the stall next to his. He leaned down, and used the mirror he was supposed to use on stage to reflect the light of the holy spirit to get a glimpse of her nude ass from beneath the stall, doing so as she dressed as the Virgin Mary.

 

After a few more thrusts, he looked down at your mother, realizing she had so much more to give than the current moment. He repositioned her, not wanting to waste her in this moment of absolute liberty. It was rare he had this much freedom or control over anything in life. No matter how much or often he bullied his way through it, the world always returned some resistance, however small, filling him with a quiet desperation, one which he suffered silently, not wanting to show weakness.

 

He was being repaid for his stoicism now.



He felt like he was cradling an overstuffed bag of candy in his lap, something he had experienced once one Halloween, when he had found a little boy and his sister near the end of the night, and he had snatched their pillowcases full of treats from them, hearing them wailing behind him in the darkness as he walked off calmly.

 

He slept with those two bags against him that night, brimming with pride, only to throw them out the next morning after digging out all the Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.



The smell of your mom’s sweat was beginning to drift through the scent of cinnamon, and it brought him back to that weird kid, the one he couldn’t remember the name of, who he pummelled out of disgust for his constantly sweating armpits. The more he beat him, the bigger and darker the circles in the boy’s shirt got, and the more justified he felt in continuing to beat him.



When the boy’s sister ran in, screaming, he noticed she was sweating herself, also at the armpits, as she took her groaning brother away through the spreading crowd of onlookers in the hallway. “Guess it runs in the family,” he called to her. He could see the back of her neck burning red as she went, her hands trembling as she held her stumbling brother. He looked at the ground, as if he could see leftover sweat there. “Guess the janitor will have to come to sweep this up.” He had a smile on his face, though nobody laughed.



He somehow juggled all these thoughts while still remaining firm in the present, feeling vividly the way your mom rode his cock. He held her there as something precious, his favorite mom of sorts. Moms in general were a weird thing to him, some strange abstraction that existed, doing so ubiquitously, but just as a wandering factor throughout the world. He had remembered the last mom he had to deal with. It was Arnold’s mom. She was nice enough (though a little fat), and she offered food. But after trying her lasagne, he had been so offended, and even more offended in being forced to fake enjoyment, that he had no qualms about “accidentally” tipping the candle of the creepy shrine to her late husband. He didn’t resent having to fake regret or shame in himself, even as the dead man’s photographs – polaroids - went up in flames before her very eyes (she had come into the room only after he called her, making sure to do so once the photographs had caught).



Her felt her ass, enjoying its every inch, sifting through it the same way he did after lifting the entire charity bucket (the one which had been circulated from classroom to classroom) to help Joey after he had been hit by that car (it was supposed to go to his wheelchair. His family had to instead go for a much cheaper model). Usually, he would have at least faced suspicion for such an occurrence. That time, everyone assumed somebody must have broken into the school after hours. Nobody could believe one of their own would stoop so low. But that’s what made him him, he was always outdoing himself.



And as for outdoing himself, he couldn’t see it with his eyes, her ass being too big, but he could only assume through sensation that his cock was probing deeper, much deeper, than Tony’s that one time he stood looking into his window, filming him fuck his fleshlight on his bed. After blackmailing him for money for three months, he showed everyone the video anyways, continuing to blackmail him at a discount in exchange for not posting the video online.



Her cheeks gave to the slaps, doing so just like the cheeks of that El Salvadorian exchange student when he smacked her ass in the hall. She turned and looked at him, shocked, her butt-cheek still settling, and he stared back, almost daring her to tell somebody. She turned and left quickly down the hall, her gait stiff with humiliation. He knew he was safe. She would tell no one. She couldn’t even speak English.



Your mom’s drugged state, the way it pried her from her every care, not even reacting to the things happening to her own body, reminded him of that one kid, Gerald might have been his name, who would just shut down every time he was confronted, becoming mute and distant, a human flesh doll for abuse. Groaning when his stomach was stepped on, only to lose any appearance of fear once the pain receded, as if he were a million miles fallen into himself from fear.



He fucked your mom, abusing her and her body, loving the fact that he was, and he wondered about Terra, about finding out what her uncle had done to her, laughing when he heard it, storing it and then using it on her later when she objected to him cutting her in line. He had no idea what the specifics of her uncle’s abuse entailed, but he knew Terra couldn’t have been getting it worse than what your mom was getting now, his penis tearing through her, in the privacy and safety of her own home no less.



As all these memories, each one sweet and diverse, flashed through his mind, it had occurred to him: the one person he hadn’t been thinking about, the one most relevant to the current situation, its apparent catalyst, just so happened to be the favorite of all his victims.



He always felt it was petty, though he never felt shame about this pettiness, but out of everyone, you had become his favorite for no other reason than: you made the funniest face when you were in a state of advanced pain.


Whether it were physical, emotional, brutal, subtle, a punch to the throat, or a kick to the testicles, the expression it produced in you, your eyes squinting, your lower lip protruding, dripping saliva, your forehead crinkling to a tectonic landscape of lifting granite; it was just, all of it, way too hysterical. Way too filled with its own self-supplying joy to not love.



Only your mom’s ass could match the beauty of that expression, albeit with much more dignity, even with a cock in its “mouth.” Your mom’s ass, with all its excess mass and comical bouncing, contained much more self-assured poise than you had, in all his time knowing you, ever expressed.

 

Not too long ago, he had wondered if you were still his favorite, if that goofy expression alone was enough to keep you in that number one spot. It was a shocking moment to him, brief but real, and he almost felt a slight guilt come over him at thinking it. But as the shock wore away, the thought came back to him, and he reflected on it more, not feeling guilty, or as if he were touching a self-imposed third rail. He had a right to consider it, after all, it was his own mind. And what did he owe you to keep you at number one?

 

But now, as he sat there, his sweating ass smearing against your couch cushions, the sweet embrace of your mom’s insides bouncing up and down his cock, the weight of her giant butt-cheeks helping assist the motion of the whole while slapping his thighs, he knew he had been foolish. There was no bigger clown than you. He knew that. The fact that you had gone so over the top, supplying him with your own mother’s comically large ass, had proven that.



As he looked up at her, his whole being immersed in the ecstasy she provided, her face, bright in the midday sunlight, suddenly shone down at him. She was looking off into the living room, as if it existed at a great distance, her mind filled with nothing, but every few seconds, there was a twitch. One in her brow, sometimes in her lower lip. By themselves, these twitches meant little, but as he glared at them more, he could see something in their gestalt. A tremble in her temple and a trembling in her cheek only added to it, sucking at his attention. And then, as he stared astonished, and it began to dawn on him why it fascinated him so, she did it, all of her twitches coming together as one until he could see now that it was for sure an expression he recognized.

 

His favorite victim above him now, only feminine and beautiful along with being goofy-looking, existed, and with that, he felt ecstatic waves shoot through him.

 

As his testicles went tight, his thighs flexed, and his butt-cheeks gripped the cushions below, he pulled out his cock, ejaculating all over your mom’s sweet ass in satisfying gushes. As the thick ropes began to drip down, his body untensing, hers settling, a little lens, one positioned across from him caught the moment, just as they had caught every moment before it. The two of them, their unlikely combination of bodies, settled within the reflected of that little eye.

 

And after a moment, the two of them as still as a photograph, his hand shot out and slapped her ass, which had been enlarged comically within the lens. Though in the footage, it would exist exactly as it had been.

 

 

You had seen him in the hallway, your heartbeat rising. You held your backpack strap in the palm of one hand, the way you usually did to assuage your nerves. He caught you in his peripheral, looking over suddenly, as if shocked, then his face settling, and soon giving way to a mirth, one strangely warm despite its cruelty.

 

You don’t know how you built up the nerve, but you moved toward him and managed to calm your throat down enough to produce speech. “We square?” you asked.

 

He began to laugh, and you knew it was because you had made that look he always loved. You didn’t even know you made that look until you met him. He was the first to let you know.

 

His laugh slowed, then he stared at you. His gaze lingered over your face. Then, all of sudden, probably shocking him as much as it did you, a look like someone saying goodbye to a friend came over him. He seemed to shake it free, almost moving his head to do so. Then he looked back at you, his usual confidence returning. “No,” he said, shaking his head with a grin. “You’re not getting off that easy.”

 

You both stood there for a moment. You sighed, then you reached behind yourself and swung your bag before you, your arm ready for it. You zipped open a smaller pouch. He stared at you, at your fishing fingers within, and then they came out, holding a usb drive which glimmered under the hallway glare.

 

He was speechless.

 

“It’s here,” you said, not expecting to have to explain. “All of it. It looks like she wanted it. You can have it if you promise to never tell anyone that she didn’t.”

 

He stared at it for a moment, astonished, apparently thrilled. Then he looked past it, at your face, and that sadness came back to him.

 

“We square?” you asked again.

 

Before you could even finish, his hand had shot out, and he had snatched it, pocketing it quickly. His smile came back. “Almost square…” he said. “Or at least a little closer to it.”

 

You stared at him, then you looked down, exhaling with exasperation. “What will it…”

 

“Again.”

 

Your face shot up.

 

“Again. We need to do it again,” he said.

 

You had realized you made that face as soon as he began to laugh.

 

“If we don’t do it again,” he said, still laughing. “I tell them she didn’t want it.” The laugh slowed down. He patted the pocket which held the drive. “It’s no skin off my back if people don’t think I’m smooth enough to pull her legitimately. Who would be?”

 

He stared at you, his eyes wide with joy, happy to have you pinned in place now. You trembled, and the corner of his mouth rose at it. He only didn’t laugh at your expression now because he was waiting for your reply. And as he waited, his eyes scanned over you, your every inch of face. They only straightened and levelled at your eyes when you spoke. “…okay…” you said, with no strength in it.

 

His smile went wide.

 

You swallowed spit.

 

You felt him hit you, way too hard, on your shoulder with his palm. “Okay then. Just have her ready for me this Friday then?”

 

He said it way too loudly, bodies passing the two of you on both sides. You nodded your head, knowing that any attempt to get him to talk more quietly would only spur him on to do the opposite.

 

“Huh?” he asked.

 

“…yeah…”

 

“Good boy,” he said, smacking you on the shoulder again, this time harder than the last. His hand held there for a moment, then he pulled it away and waved you off. “’bout time you probably head out now. Go and get things ready for then, okay?”

 

You turned around, and he smiled as you did, watching the back of your head as you crawled away, your body with rigid with your own humiliation and defeat. He kept his eyes on you, smiling as he did, not able to see your face, but imagining, with perfect clarity, what it looked like. And at imagining it, his smile only got wider.

 

 

You, as you walked off, your expression facing away, opened your trembling lip. “…favorite,” you murmured to yourself. And your smile got wider at the thought and reassurance of it. Even wider than his.



 

Next Month's Story: As the World Turns (working title)


Teaser:


He examined the curve of that line, the way it protruded, slightly at first, then bending upward starkly, almost erotically, with feminine shape, into the sky.


The front door opened and shut downstairs. He didn’t hear it. He was staring at the beautiful hockey stick shape on his screen, its unalloyed abstract, when translated to the dollars it truly represented, kept climbing. “Murray is a genius,” he said, shaking his head with a grin. He was having trouble pulling his gaze away, it had been that way for years, ever since he found Murray, and was able to turn his tens of millions of inheritance into hundreds of millions just by placing it in the right spots, the hidden nooks and crannies of an economy that only a privileged few, those who walked behind the scenes, had any hope of predicting in any way which could prove to be lucrative.


The stairs creaked. He was nearly deaf to them, even as your mom’s whistle echoed throughout the house. It wasn’t until she entered the room, her body with her, that he found something which could distract him from his screen.


Her body filled his peripheral. He looked over. She was looking down as she went, pretending to not notice him there, whistling innocently. He stared at her, her body never getting old in his estimation. She grabbed at the belt of her coat, loosening it, and she emerged from beneath it, dropping it to the bed. She grabbed at her shirt, unbuttoning it, turning to the bathroom, facing away from him, and she moved within.


She disappeared (her ass last of all) beyond its doorway. He stared at the empty space for a moment. There was an opposing flicker in his opposite peripheral. He turned back, a sudden flatline in the stock, then, as usual, another seismic shift upward. His moment of concerned panic (he had many of them) disappearing as soon as it came, giving way to his smug, self-assured grin.


He saw another flicker, beige and shapely, in his other peripheral. He looked over, seeing in your mom’s delicate hand, holding her delicate shirt, placing it on the sink counter. Her body, soft and smooth, only half-visible beyond the doorway, her blonde hair hanging over what little of her he could see. Then she lifted her leg. Her skirt came off. She pulled it loose from her milksoft body.


He sat there for a moment watching. He watched until she turned, still whistling within the pristine bathroom (the one designed exactly as she liked it by the best home decorator in Manhattan), and she opened the glass door of the shower. She went in. He then watched, seeing glimpses of her body through distorted glass. His mouth began to water.


He pushed away from his desk, standing up, adjusting his tie. Then he moved, moving toward the open doorway of the bathroom, losing articles of clothing as he went, each falling to the bed with her coat, some on top of it.


He was nearly nude by the time he was within the bathroom. Your mom didn’t react, coy ‘til the very end. He shut the door on his own hairy nudity, and your mom’s smooth nudity obscured behind the distorting haze of glass.


As a smack could be heard without, even over the running water, the lines on the screen continued to flicker. They flickered, flatlining again as usual. Then they flickered, continuing to flatline, flatlining for an extended period. A longer period than Murray had ever allowed before. More smacks within, kissing and flesh against glass and porcelain too. The line continued, flatlined. Then it, for the first time in a while, dipped. It flatlined. Remained flatlined. Then it dipped. Flatline. Rise. Stopped after not long, flatlined. Then it dipped. And it stayed dipping. Dipping. Dipping.


Another smack.


Your mom giggling.


Your dad’s groan.


Dipping.


thwap thwap


Dipping.


Your mom giggling dipping.


thwap thwap thwap


Dipping.


Dipping.


smack


Dipping.



 

This story will be out in full a month from today, though it will be out in a few days for those who support me on patreon and subscribestar.


If you're at all interested in getting this story early, as well as many others, you can support me on subscribestar (I'm planning on shifting away from Patreon, so please don't subscribe there): https://subscribestar.adult/bluvelvet99



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yepyep
Sep 11

You okay Blu??? You haven't posted in a while.

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Yup! I'm still working on the new story. I'll be posting the next America instalment soon, and the new original story will be available to subscribestar supporters for a week before I post it here

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