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Candy Apples

Having a mom with a fat ass was torture. When you weren’t standing in front of a sea of ghoulish, grinning faces, a cacophony of shadowy horror, you were instead, as if wanting in its absence, fantasizing, and maybe even hoping, that your mom’s ass would meet the fate that your tormenting spirits asked of it. Your entire life orbited helplessly around the sun-like gravity of your mom’s delicious ass, as did the satellite of all the male minds in any room she was in. Even when she was absent, a large portion of all of men’s thoughts revolved around the gravitational pull of those two fat cheeks.

As the narrator to your life, or at least this period of your life, let me just make you aware of a few relevant statistics that I happen to be privy to. Get ready for this. You’re about to get a peek behind the veil that most sons would kill to remain ignorant of.

1 our of every 100 thoughts in the male half of your town were about your mom’s ass. That’s thoughts total. Thoughts involving everything from the grandiose: what’s the meaning of life; to the utterly banal: did I leave the gas on? Contained within that internal hall of mirrors is your mom’s naked body periodically running into frame and multiplying unto infinity.

1 out of every 5 male masturbation sessions involved thoughts of your mom’s ass. That includes memories of your mom’s ass clothed, musings about its shape and nature in the buck, and fantasies about just how it looked in the sweaty and hushed act of intercourse. Visions of it made alive in bedrooms it was never supposed to see the walls of.

1 out of every 3 who-would-you conversations involved your mom, and almost all participants in this verbal game mentioned her perfect fat ass as the major reason why they would. Two or more minds fixated on it in thought bubbles which sat next to each other in the air.

1 out of every 2 men had your mom as their number 1 sexual fantasy.

And 1 out of ever 1 men had her in their top 3 sexual fantasies. The fantasy version of her, her shadow in a sense, would exist in dozens of places at once, engaged in the act of copulation, never catching a break, her ass never free of male palms and pelvis.

Your mom was like a phantom, a spirit that haunted the dreams of everyone around you. She was the youthful sexual awakening for young men and the final dying wish of a long-lived life nearing its end. She was the specter materializing in the empty halls, seen, vividly, but not seen. So near, but drifting out of touch with her feet off the ground. Beckoning witnesses into madness and the hallowed ruins left by the beast of unattainability.

You would sit in your room, hearing your mom whistling in the kitchen, living room, or in her bedroom, and you’d reflect on the surrealism that under the same roof as you there sat and jiggled the most prized artifact your town had to offer. The hidden treasure in the lowest deck of the largest sunken ship. Everyone knew where it was, but no one would see it. They would be crushed by all the pressure of the water falling on top of them if they tried it.

If men could transform into flies, your house would be full of them. If life after death was true, and some could forego heaven to instead live as a ghost here on earth, your house would be the site of the world’s most intense poltergeist. Your mom’s room being subjected to the bulk of the activity, leaving thick ropes of warm protoplasm all over and between your mom’s ungaurded butt cheeks and possibly on her sleeping face.

The lust and drive was intense. 5 of your former classmates were abroad in schools trying to become proctologists so that they could come back and help your mom in the remote chance that she had an ass-related complication. The town dentist had an elaborate plan for getting his nurse out of the way on short notice in case your mom ever needed to come in for an operation where she’d have to be put under. You have seen artistic renderings of your mom’s ass, drawn from imagination and nothing more, scrawled across bathroom stall partitions and on obscure facing trees in the local park and North of town woods. The insane scribblings of mad men. The Hydes to so many Jekylls you seen in day-to-day life. Jekylls who smiled at you, their mask of civility held semi-firm, while lying beneath those placid waters sat a creature of 1000 tentacles and many more teeth writhing and rotating in ancient pleasure, waiting for their moment to be reborn in waking reality and to live out their primal purpose.

All of these factors had astronomical implications as well, as if conjured up from the muted fire-pits of long dead religions. Students from the various science clubs back in school used to chart the seasons using your mom’s ass and what it would be wearing to denote the time of year. Winter meant parka, which was bad, but sweatpants and tights, which were good. Spring meant jeans and skirts. Summer, or prime time, meant jean shorts and naked thighs. And fall, which is where you were currently, like winter, meant a jacket and sweatpants. Your mom’s ass was black magic. Like horoscopes, it was a way for those spiritually inclined, but not religious, to determine their lottery numbers and predetermined lot in life.

And like some sort of a psychic vampire, your mom sucked and rained life from the town based on her state of dress. Which is why the male townsfolk seemed to depress in energy and optimism as the leaves started to drop each year, and only start to regain any sense of drive when the first of the spring flowers bloomed, as if reborn. But it was a rough six months in the interim. But not all was lost.

There was always one glimmer of hope each fall. It would deliver rarely, but rarely was better than never. That glimmer of hope was Halloween night. Not just Halloween night itself, but the parties and get-togethers around that night. A small cabal of men in your town, you had no idea who, would come up with and circulate ideas for cool costumes for women, often using the town bulletin board, or sometimes flyers delivered into the mailboxes of town residents. The ideas for female costumers were always ones that would appear hot on female frame, but you don’t think you were being narcissistic in assuming that the prime target for these ethereal orange-black suggestions was your very own mom.

I mean, the Borat Banana Green One Piece, Catwoman, Daisy Duke, Eve of Adam and Eve fame, a Baywatch Lifeguard. These were costumes that were all tailored toward exposing the female ass. If they weren’t meant for your mom’s ass specifically, a prospect you definitely doubted, they were at least intended for asses like your mom’s.

Whoever these ghostly spirits of suggestion were, these voice in the heads of the women in your town, the ones who came up with these beautiful ideas for Halloween dress, you were their greatest ally, though they would never know it. You’d bring up these ideas to your mom as you helped her wash the dishes in case she hadn’t heard them when she was out with a friend or walking past the town bulletin board. Her ass would jiggle as she scrubbed a plate, giving you extra motivation to fight harder for your desired costume outcome, its cheeky fate hanging in the balance.

But despite firing on all cylinders every time, you were only successful in your Eyegore-like assist once. That year your mom showed up to the town Halloween party dressed as Catwoman, much to every man’s delight. yours especially. You were on the lookout for any clues as to who the visionary mind was that came up with that outfit. You wondered how they felt knowing they succeeded. Whoever it was, they’d have no idea that you were standing by their side the entire time. Your mom’s ass cupped by that spandex, trapped there by fates and furies beyond its conscious awareness. Each cheek without autonomy in a world already decided for it, below the beaming ignorance of your pleasant mom’s smile.

You were teased mercilessly that night. Your face burned red in the cool October air as familiar faces spanked and humped at the air within eyeshot of you. You knew you were going to have a blast jerking off when you got home, mentally photoshopping your mom into those instances. Your mom’s pipe cleaner tail had been bent upwards by some enterprising, possibly disembodied, hand at some point that night, giving the onlookers a better view of her ass in that black spandex. So big, so unruly, so perfect. Like a blind monster gobbling up space and attention. The Hyde to your mom’s Jekyll.

Men dressed like zombies, goblins, Satan, and even the Joker, looked on at it. A frightful sea of faces in the black night, like the image from any nightmare you’d have as a kid, the kind that would have you running into your mom’s room to sleep with her with her warm body against yours. Now you had no warm body to run too. But at least you’d be able to run to the privacy of your room and find solace from these ghouls in there. You’d tug yourself into a trance as you imagined their zombie-like banging against your doors and windows, all desperate to get in, just for a little taste of that sweet, succulent flesh.

It was oh so good.

And that was the thing. Halloween was the one time of year when the things that scared you, of which there were many, whether they were bumps in the night and faces in your window, or the bullies in your town who never gave you a break from the knowledge that you were a loser and it was all you’d ever be; Halloween was the time when you could remove their bite by celebrating the harrowing fear itself. The ghouls and the creeps were all there that night, acting in full horrible force, but you now loved every minute of it. There was something so warm and communal about your mom’s ass showing up there that night, filling out the roll and attire that was expected of it, as if reporting for military duty. Attire that men had dreamed they would see it in. It was the first night in a long time where you felt like you belonged to this community, even with all the insults and the cruel teasing. And to add bliss to satisfaction, the strongest orgasm you had ever experienced happened on that night, a tide finally reaching its high water mark under the misty moonlight.

The warm feeling of that night continued on for the second day when you had woken up to find out that some of the guys in your town had taken out their maddening sexual frustration by egging the windows of your house and coating the tree on your front lawn with toilet paper. The jackolanterns you and your mom had carved together had been smashed all over your stoup. Your mom shrieked when she opened the front door to see it. You could feel the love of your mom’s ass animating the mob even through all this contempt for her and you. After all, those two things were related. Not just related, but inseparable like twins, one good, another evil, sharing a connection through quantum entanglement. You loved seeing the hate, as it was the smoking hot gun for the existence of the lust. You went straight back inside to the comfort of your room and its egg-splattered window and you had an even better session tugging your wild prick than you had the night before. Egg dripped down the window as you did.

You imagined those wild arms in the dark as they flung those eggs angrily at the building that housed their treasure in it. Their entitlement and rage inspired you. Their anger for your mom was contagious, and you had to stop yourself from rising with its rapturous bliss. You had to remind yourself that this brewha over your mom’s ass was all business, not personal, and any anger against her you could develop was only worthwhile or justified in so far as it helped to get her to do what they wanted. At the same time, you couldn’t allow the love you had for your mom to spur you unwisely to let her off the hook for being such a big obstacle to her even bigger butt cheeks.

Though it wasn’t punitive goals that motivated you, unless you counted your mom being slapped on the ass a punishment, it was pragmatism. Whatever unleashed your mom’s ass for one of those ghoulish cocks out there was your first priority, humiliating your mom for her faults came a distant second. Humiliating yourself was an even more distant goal than the first two, which was a testament to how much you wanted to see all three goals to fruition.

And Halloween was the time to do it, the time when all evils, including those that could be visited against your family, reputationally or sexually, could be brought to the moonlit surface and celebrated. It was the only time of year where having a strangers walk all the way up to your front door was maybe acceptable. A night of magic and witchcraft, satanic deals and strange drives. Your mom used to walk you around town, in your little costume (ghost, power ranger, ninja, leprauchaun) and you’d stare on at the lively magic of the night, with houses glowing deep orange and all types of foul creature and folk legends running about as if unleashed from the burrows of imagination itself, averaging 4 feet in height, as strange nightmare men and women stepped out of their front doors to drop candy in your open-rimmed sleeping bag.

The one time of year where all rules where flipped on their head and fear was the prime virtue, along with the celebration of other hallowed taboos, like mocking the dead and consuming large quantities of sugar. And your mom allowed all of it, not knowing it would come back to bite her in her big ass one day, in a manner of speaking. I guess it’s always what you don’t know that gets you in the end.

And this year, without realizing it, she had added the final puppy dog tail necessary for the witches brew of what was about to come leaping out at her from the darkness.

Because this year, she didn’t buy herself a costume.

Your mom’s toes, her heels, her calves and thighs, her waist and hips and her fleshy ass cheeks, all delicious enough to kiss; she had gotten the idea in her skull that these things were hers to keep, not even giving an inch for the spirit of Halloween, a spirit as hungry as the sacks that hung suspended, mouths open on some stoup somewhere, waiting for candy.

This was rage inducing. And like all forms of rage, motivating. Your town would get its fill, whether through hook or through crook. The spirits that guarded Halloween wouldn’t let this pass unmolested. They were as vengeful as they were black, in body and intention. It was only a matter of who it would benefit.

When the shadows in Halloween decide to move, its always the most innocent who do the paying, and the most wicked who feel the payoff.


You pulled the baggie out and examined the pieces of candy corn, drenched in the blue liquid they’ve been sitting in for the past 3 days. You played with your hard cock as you admired your work. It was fitting, you thought, that your mom’s favorite candy, the one she shared in common with no one, was the one that would be her undoing.

When you heard the front door open, you knew it was time. You poured the contents of the baggie over a bowl and filter, and let the velvet concentrate spill below, as the now-clean pieces of candy corn, sitting good-as-new with only the slightest hint of blue on their white ends, looked up at you, ready for their assignment.

You had never been so happy to see candy corn before.

You walked out into the living room, and the first thing you saw was your mom’s gargantuan ass bent over in front of you as she picked up her groceries. She set them on the kitchen table and then smiled at you. “We’re all set for the trick-or-treaters.” You just stared at her, sick with nerves, not realizing how unnerving you looked from the outside. Your mom’s face dropped slightly before you became self-aware and adjusted the tone of your face, causing her to continue her smile.

“That’s good, mom,” you said.

You waited like a vulture for her to pour herself her annual bowl of candy corn. And when she did, you pounced. At the first instance of her leaving the kitchen, you got up from the chair you were sitting on the edge of and you dropped your anointed pieces into the bowl, making sure to stir it after doing so, allowing your sacred pieces to be lost in the like-colored crowd.

Your mom suddenly came in, startling you. You pulled your hand out of the bowl.

“Hey!” she said.

Your stomach dropped.

“Those are mine!”

And the relief hit you just as hard. You walked off awkwardly.

“I’m just kidding,” she said, and lifted the bowl to your trembling face, “have some.”

You just smiled. “No thanks, mom. I’m good.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” you said. Eating only one measly piece of candy, even if it was from your own batch, wasn’t enough to have any effect, you knew that, but you also didn’t want to risk the possibility that the one that you ate would be the straw that broke the camel’s back of your mom’s much unwanted sobriety.

“Oh, another philistine,” she said. “I understand. Someone who just can’t wrap their tongue around the delicious nuances of candy corn.” She smiled at you, playfully. You smiled back, sympathizing, knowing that you had your own unpopular inclinations that would horrify others almost as much as the prospect of eating candy corn. But your inclinations had the advantage of actually being delicious.

You walked away, sick to your stomach, as your mom chewed on a piece of the candy. As images of your mom in various states of dress and undress flashed across dozens of minds in your community, your flesh and blood mother sat on the couch chewing away as the moment-of-fate’s train moved forward hungry for the comfort of the train platform, between intermissions of her looking out the window in anticipation of the first trick-or-treaters, not realizing this was the last thing she had to worry about.

You watched feverishly. Terrified at what you were doing, and also liberated by it. Excited for the possibility of seeing your mom’s buck naked ass for the first time. What did it actually look like? You thought about that as you scrolled through your facebook, looking for the perfect candidate. You’d look down at their face, and sometimes body, in their pictures, and look back up at your mom chewing ignorantly to imagine what it would look like, the body in question and hers. You wanted a little bit of a mismatch. Something that just felt wrong, or at the least, incongruous.

But there was an added catch. A worrying one. It had to be someone who gave you a feeling of shock and horror at the merest sight of them, and, also, someone who would be low (not really the proper adjective, but of course your definitions of these words would be a little more ascendant) enough to fuck your passed-out mother. Someone you could trust to do it and not tell, unless they were telling it to other like-minds who would appreciate it for what it really was, not to the police or your mother herself before the act even started.

But as you scrolled through the list, and your mom’s personal candy bowl became more and more empty, so did your list of sure prospects, until you realized you had no sure prospects to even begin with. You had no way of knowing who had it in them and who didn’t. Just because someone said misogynistic things it didn’t make them an ally to your cause. And just because someone loved and respected women, it didn’t guarantee that they wouldn’t make an exception when it came to your mom given the right set of circumstances. You were in a world of unassuming faces over unreadable minds, unable to tell which ones had that glow you were looking for. Who were the soldiers, or at least likely recruits, for the higher moral cause you were in pursuit of.

Your thoughts spiraled and, in turn, a heavy paralysis set in. You looked up at your mom. Her ass was so fat sitting on that couch that you could see it from the front. You started to panic. Her eyelids were getting heavy and her barefeet stopped tapping playfully on the coffee table. She took one last look outside at the darkening night, before falling down face-first into the arm of the couch. Her ass now in side profile.

“Mom!” you called, and you ran up to her. You began poking her shoulder. No response. You then escalated into smacking her ass. Nothing. The feeling of her ungaurded ass had you going. You smacked it without being stopped. Not by her, not by fate, not by anything. You threw your hand through space and caught nothing but cheek. Excited, you grabbed her tights, and pulling down on them hard, her bare-naked ass made its introduction to your life. You panted pathetically and licked your dry lips with your trembling tongue. You needed your dream to come true. You needed it more than you needed to breath. Especially now, with your mom’s free and open butt crack looking up at you, a foot from your face, begging you. You looked down at it sympathetically, waiting for it to say something.

“Trick or treat!”

It was the first set of trick-or-treaters. It startled you.

They were here. As you went to the front door, readying yourself to hand out candy, you thought about what you could do. As you passed out candy to the little pirate, ghost and Captain America, you thought about maybe taking your mom’s bottom for yourself. It was a thought that had never occurred to you before, but you wanted your mom to be violated at least once tonight. It had to be tonight. You couldn’t explain why. It just felt wrong on any other day of the year. There was something in the air that had you. It wouldn’t let you go. Not until the night was over. And once the night was over, it would be gone forever.

As you shut the door on the kids, one of them bending down to pick up the candy that missed his bag, you went over to your mom and pulled down your pants. Your rock hard dick fell out. You picked your mom up by her waist as you straddled the couch. You were able to hump against her giant ass easily and willingly. But when it came to sticking it in, you felt a barrier in your path. You just couldn’t do it. It wouldn’t be right. It needed to be someone who didn’t deserve it. You did. It also needed to be someone who never should have been in your house. It needed to be someone who your mom would, or already did, absolutely hate. Your mom’s ass was beckoning for it. It spoke to you in the language of weight and size. Curves, nature’s way of making men strive for more.

Another “trick or treat!” penetrated the heavy string of your fateful thoughts. As you handed out more candy to more creatures of the night, a plan hit you like a sack of bricks. The sudden look of change in your face scared the kids more than their costumes did you.

You closed the door and went to your mom, taking her by her ankles, and you dragged her carefully down off the couch, then less carefully across the floor, her ass jiggling helplessly, until you got to the front door, just inches from her being visible from where the trick-or-treaters would be standing.

“When he, whoever he is, sees her naked, live and in person, he won’t be able to resist,” you said out loud, “I’m sure of it.” When you got her where you needed her, you lifted her by her ankle and kissed the bottom of her foot for good luck and said “I’ll have him by the balls.” You set her down, “whoever he is.”

The next trick-or-treater was a face you recognized, but covered in white and burgundy clown makeup. It was your nextdoor neighbor’s teenage son. As you clumsily poured candy into his bag, he looked behind you at the bare foot jutting out from behind the counter.

You caught him and turned around to see what he was looking at, before turning back, unable to keep your smile subdued, and saying “it’s my mom.”

He looked up at you, the son of the woman who he just noticed in a new way earlier this year, noticing many women in that same way within the same short space of time. Hearing you mention her, especially in a moment as strange as this, shot right through to his new core, which was nothing but sweet cum and visions of curvy flesh that floated on a feather and a dream. You noticed this in him, recognizing it in yourself at his age.

“Can you keep a secret?” you asked.

“Yes, anything!” he said.

You smiled. “She has no pants on.”

“What?” he asked, in a violent reflex.

“Do you want to see?”

“No!” he said without thought, and cringed after he did.

“Just come inside,” you said. And after a few reluctant seconds, he came in passed you. You looked out at the street. There were kids all over. But the coast was as clear as you could get for now.

You turned around to see him looking down at it, wide-eyed. “Go ahead,” you said to him, assuringly, “you can touch it.”

He looked up at you, terrified that there would be a catch, but when you just nodded to him again, “go ahead, do it,” he knelt down and grabbed one of your mom’s cheeks. Upon doing so, he just stared off into space. It took you a second to realize what was happening. But when it was done happening, and his young innercore was now let loose within the inner contours of the front of his costume, the terror set in. He stood up and ran out passed you.

“Don’t tell anyone what happened here,” you yelled at him as he passed by incoming trick-or-treaters. You knew that he wouldn’t dare. Not that he would ever understood what had happened in the first place. As you filled the pillow cases in front of you, your mom just slept their, mostly out of sight, not knowing the explosively wonderful experience she had just been responsible for. The beautiful moment she had given somebody, as beautiful a creation as you, but maybe even more so. A beauty in within the folds of time that most women opt to avoid letting happen, though they sit on the keys to its unleashing at all hours of the day, from at least 16 to 50 if they’re lucky. You had just fished the key out from underneath your mother’s body, its imprint within her permanently from lack of movement, and did what she lacked the imagination to do. Halloween was truly a night of wild possibility.

And the beauty of the night was far from over. Because as you were done handing out candy, and you were the middle of shutting the door, you suddenly see a ruffle in the bushes just outside your house as the door closes. And within seconds of closing your door to the spirits of the night outside, locking yourself within your sacred zone with just yourself and your mother and silence, you heard muffled screams coming from the other side of the door.

You grabbed the handle and rocketed it open, the cool Fall air exploding in your face as you did. The bush in front of you. It was shaking. You stood there, perplexed, horrified even, at what might pop out from behind the bush. And then, when you’re least prepared to see it, it pops out.

It was an astronaut.

But no any astronaut. It was the kid you had just handed candy to a second ago. He was bawling his eyes out and running at the fastest speed his little legs could take him. He was able to run fast, faster than you thought he could, as he was light one important accessory for the night. It took you a second to realize which one. And just as you did, you saw it pop up from the bush, in the hands of a shadowy figure, someone who was looking inside of it at the candy he had just scored.

He was tall with some bulk to him, clearly an adult, but of what severity, you couldn’t say. He didn’t notice you, all his attention focused at the pit of the pillow case and all the goodies defenseless to his red claws within. He was looking through the narrow slits of his red devil mask. You were transfixed by him. And then, suddenly, as if sensing something, he looked up.

You stood there, staring at him; and him, face stuck in a permanent plastic grin, back at you, dead in his tracks, as if unsure of what to do.

With very little thought (and lucky for that, because in just a second more, he would have walked off), you motioned behind yourself, within your house, at your mom’s foot, which you knew should be visible to him, even from his angle and distance.

This should have done nothing. But you lived in a small community. You knew that he knew who you were. You knew that he would have known even if you were fully decked out in a costume. He knew your house. He also knew that you lived with your mother. The two of you alone. Maybe that’s why he didn’t run off right when he noticed you. He knew you wouldn’t step in for the sake of that kid. He knew you wouldn’t step into a fight for your own sake. Shit, he even knew that you wouldn’t step in for the sake of your mom. And there’s also the possibility that the white-lit look at the ceiling, that tightly-fitted ceiling that your mom’s ass, sometimes in states of undress, existed under. It was like magic to him, the way that anything a beautiful woman touches becomes magic to those who watch from afar.

Either way though, when he saw that foot, he was transfixed. He knew whose foot it was. But why was it there, so out of place, and why were you pointing at it? The moment pulsed for him as he looked up at you. It nipped at him as freshly as the night air. “Come in, come in, come in” you said. Your frantic look only intrigued and excited him further.

At least that’s what you thought. You couldn’t truly tell through the dead eyes of his mask exactly what he was thinking.

He stood there for another second. And then in the next second he was walking up your stoop. And in the next second he was inside your house. And then, in that final second before the whole world changed, he saw your mom lying there, ass up, ass-naked, ass-ready.

His devil face grinned down at it, as if he had any other expression to give. He then looked back at you. Your teeth were chattering, and only partially because his unchangeable grin was unnerving, and even less form the cold. He then looked back down at your mom’s bare behind, knelt down, and started smacking it with the fullness of his palms. His pillow case thrown carelessly off to the side. Clearly he had traded one set of goodies for another.

“Trick-or-treat!” you heard from behind your back, startling you.

You turned around to see more kids. You approached them and struggled through shaking limbs to give them their fair share of candy. When you were done, before they could even say thank you, you slammed the door shut.

You turned around to see nothing there. It was as if your mom and the devil had disappeared together within the same sudden puff of red smoke. But when you turned over to look into your living room, they were both still there.

The devil was now naked from the waist down, his pink cock stiff as a pitchfork. He was groping and kneading your mom’s entire lower-half frantically, in contradiction to his devilish smile.

“Just wait!” you said, opening the door with the bowl of candies in your other hand, “I want to see when you stick it in.” You were willing to sell your soul to him just to see that moment. You placed the bowl on the ledge of your stoop, partially relying on the honor system for it equitable distribution, but mostly not caring what happened any which way. You slammed the door shut before any kid could get there and you locked it. Then you rushed to the living room couch opposite the action and you watched.

You watched as he slowly stuck it in. Your mom’s lips opened at the tip, and then parted completely around its girth, and she slid down the length of his shaft until his balls were touching her glorious cheeks. You whimpered.

He just sat there, as if waiting for something to happen. His eyes invisible through the shadowy slits of the facade.

“It’s blue velvet,” you said, happy to explain your machinations to him, “her soul is yours. You just have to say the word.”

He just sat there, no noise coming out, even with his cock surrounded on all sides and inches by your mom, wanting, likely needing, to feel that friction with her.

So instead, you did the honors. “Mom. Bounce.”

And bounce she did.

And as you tugged your pants down, and went to work on your cock, ignoring the muffled calls of trick-or-treat from outside, you realized that the devil never takes a soul. Not without being offered it willingly. That’s why you were the one who had to issue that command. It was you who decided your mom’s fate this night. It was always you. Since the very beginning. And it would be you until the very end.

Your mom’s ass. The most beautiful thing that night. Halloween’s greatest piece of candy.

The mask had its eyes directly on you, even as the head that it obscured within turned to get a few kisses at your mom’s cheek and shoulder; it smiled at you unceasingly, as if it was happy with you, as happy as you were examining your mom’s gorgeous ass being pounded by that stranger’s cock.

You knew that whoever was behind that mask, he would stay behind it until the very moment he was back at home, behind the safety of his four walls. You knew that when he finally finished (and yes, he would finish on her ass) he would be out of your house as quickly as your neighbor’s son was. And like your neighbor’s, he wouldn’t dare tell a soul. Or at least, not a soul he couldn’t trust. Not a soul who hadn’t also been dragged into the dark depths below by the namesake of his mask.

Whoever he was, he wouldn’t even look your way when crossing you on the street. He would drift into the anonymous crowds, as boring and banal as they always were on every night of the year. Every night of the year except this one. The night when the ghouls and the goblins come out. A night of strange chanting and distant screams. A night of wind and shadow and lit flames. The night when the demons of the collective human soul were exercised just so we could all start the next 364 days with a blank slate. A night of fun. October 31st.


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