You had put so much thought into logistics that you were only now able to feel the full weight of what you just did on top of you. It stressed and massaged your thighs and hips in equal force. Your head thick with worry. Your stomach crowded with butterflies. And your cock and balls being cooled with the invisible ointment of angels.
Your mom’s ass, the only thing related to your existence that held any real value, was your guiding star for your behavior. Everything you did followed logically from the context of its existence within and around yours. As someone who was borderline autistic, you were obsessed with cause and effect. Well, your mom’s ass was the cause, the effect was what you did. And now that she was in her room with what you left for her there, you couldn’t undo what was done, nor would you want to.
None of what you were doing now, or sitting on the couch with your stomach in a knot after doing it, was your own fault. It wasn’t you who commanded society to put you in a box and label you defective. It wasn’t you who robbed yourself of social skills at birth or swore an oath of celibacy in a past life that you had to fulfill in this one. These were all horrors hoisted on you. And the only beauty hoisted as a counter measure just so happened to exist, and exist in volume, within the confines of your mom’s jeans.
And speaking of a different kind of genes, you were always compared to your mom in terms of intelligence. Your brother shared her beauty. That’s what they’d say, not realizing that in doing so, they implied you weren’t much to look at. But you saw it differently. Your brother’s strong frame was molded by the guiding intelligence of your mom’s genes. Whereas your intelligence, by the glorious, blind, soft chaos of her body.
Your brain was your mom’s ass, which meant you had some say in its fate. Logic itself dictated this. The same logic that kept you from speaking out loud in front of company. The logic which marginalized you like a witch in Europe. That made people go silent with embarrassment around you. That made people avoid you at risk of losing their very core values, which you would tear to shreds carelessly, and without even realizing it by just talking.
This logic was guiding you now. Guiding you to the most moral action. You were the ultimate rebel. The new James Dean for the 21st century. And the beauty of what you had cooked up could be summed up in one image.
You had hid the camera well. A pen camera in your shaving kit bag, which was opened just a little peek. A sliver through the darkness, but it opened a world of glory. A world colored white, red and beige.
Let there be light.
Your mom’s privacy swallowed hole by the void that sat in your sternum, in place of any social convention or shared mythology with the public at large. You marched at the beat of your own drum, who tout surface was being slapped rhythmically by your hard cock. Primal, savage drumming. A rain dance, washing your mom of all socially-guaranteed privacy. You were a force of nature, stripping her of everything.
You were a god. And the world would see your glory with your actions. They’d bow to your infinite power. Even as they despised you. Which they would while they furiously jerked off. If there were two things humanity flocked too in riotous crowds, it was a freakshow and a peepshow, and you were offering them both. A peep at your mom’s beautifully curved body and a peep into your beautifully sick mind.
And your mom, professor of East Asian studies at the University of Waterloo, was caught within the crossfires of this holy war. To be fair, her ass made her a pretty big target. Especially in that bright red. It wouldn’t be wrong to say she was asking for it.
As you sat there, rocking back and forth and hand flapping on the couch your mom purchased with money she made educating students your age and at your hormonal disposition, nobody would realize the magic you were capable of. Your mom always made you feel normal. She made you feel worth something. Worthy of love. And this is why you had to do it to her. That exactly why you couldn’t afford to pass up the opportunity. Your mom on the internet, naked, for anyone to see. Her ass immortal, and you living on immortalized by and through it.
You couldn’t help but laugh. You were known for your fits of uncontrollable smiling, even when you weren’t happy. Now you were both. With you mom’s ass on the altar, you stood the priest of beauty itself. God was visible. You knew because you had captured him on film.
And when your mom went out into the night, ready for a good time with friends, you said goodbye inconspicuously, and rushed to her room when she was gone. And when you saw that you captured exactly what you wanted to, it took a second for the strange joy to catch up to you. You had did it. Only your brother could stop you from uploading the video to xhamster. But he was at his girlfriend’s place.
The only thing that could stop you was you.
You had no interest in stopping yourself.
You uploaded the video and hit publish.
You refreshed the page within the orange hued light of your living room, surrounded by blackness pushing into all sides of your house. When the first two views registered themselves under your mom’s video, you felt a pride well up in you, juicy and thick, like your mom’s ass was inside your stomach now, both cheeks pressing in on the inside of your belly.
You had done it. You had exposed your mom. Even if the video were to go down now, there was no going back. Two men had seen her without her consent. That number was only going to get higher.
It climbed to 451 by the time she got home that night. You knew because you sat there, hitting refresh the entire time.
When your mom came in, she was plastered. Her friends had been irresponsible in her getting her drunk, but at least they had the decency to bring her home. If only they knew her home was a viper’s nest now. You, high off the fumes of your last action, your first real action of any consequence, decided to there were no limits anymore. Only possibilities.
You had your phone. For others, a tool for communication and networking. For you, it was a window into whatever you wanted it to do. And what you wanted to do was call your mom’s worst student.
He awoke to his phone vibrating on the pillow next to him. And then he awoke awoke to the image of your mom’s naked ass cheeks being spread open by the same son he referred to as Mr. Robot. It was the last image he expected to see in the world. That’s what made it the best. And that’s what made you the best. Only you could give somebody something so strange and beautiful. Only a small handful globally shared the desires you were blessed and cursed with, and all of them, by virtue of their being, were geniuses and one in a billion, or at least could be made geniuses and one in a billion through their initiative.
Initiative was something you had just bought yourself. And now you would cash in.
You watched your mom’s worse student plunge his cock into the same pussy that birthed your beautiful mind as you filmed it, ready to upload it as soon as he finished on her body, and as another outstanding example of your brilliance made manifest, you came up with the ultimate pun:
“How are you enjoying your ass burgers!!”
He didn’t miss a pump as he rocketed his retort back out at you:
*thwap thwap thwap*
“Shut the fuck up you retard!”
*thwap thwap thwap*
You sat back, feeling only slightly dejected, and even more aroused at not even getting respect from the man who you just gave everything.
“He must not get the joke,” you told yourself as you tugged your happy prick.