Cheek Mania

Calm Before the Storm

“What will it be, pretty lady?” The bartender stood there beneath the shade, both palms on the counter.

“That’s okay,” she said. “I don’t dri-“

“Let’s get three gin and tonics,” your cousin said, butting in. “On me.”

“No, that’s okay. I don’t drink.”

“You do now,” he said. He motioned to the bartender with a warm smile. “Pour it.”

You sat on his other side, his body on that stool separating you from your mother. You could only see her knee, and you took note of every time his palm had landed there.

You leaned forward on the bar-top, excited that you weren’t being carded. That hadn’t happened once in this country. When the drink came, you sipped at it, scowling at the bitter taste. You then looked over to your mother to see her do the same. Your cousin’s palm found her knee. You took another sip, watching as he rubbed it.

When the drink was placed before her, she grimaced at it, doing it through a nervous smile. “I can smell it,” she said.

“Delicious, isn’t it?” He lifted the glass with his left hand.

“How can you drink this stuff?”

“It’s easy when the company’s good.” He tipped the glass back and you watched his throat as it took each drop like water. Then you noticed motion. You looked down to see his other hand, still on her knee, rubbing it back and forth.

Your mom took a sip and then scrunched her face, almost scowling. “It’s like motor oil.”

“Exactly.” He took another sip. “It keeps the party running nicely.” You saw a smile, subtle and covert, in the corner of his mouth, one bubbling up suddenly and involuntarily, as if riding the burst of a sudden excitement or thrill.

Seeing it, a thrill had stirred within you.

You took a sip of the drink, feeling a sudden burn, shocked by it even, and then a buzz, not from the alcohol, which you barely downed, but from the sting of it against your lips, the initiation in whatever this was.

Your mom only half finished her glass when she pushed away from the bar. “I’m going to head to the little girl’s room.” You saw your cousin’s palms fall from her knee. He slowly placed it on the bar without looking at her. “By all means,” he said softly.

He didn’t even turn to look at her as she headed off to the bathroom. He only took another sip, then said. “Bartender, three more.” He adjusted himself on his stool and cleared his throat. “You know what? Might as well make that a double.”

Roll of Thunder

The path to the bathrooms lead into a structure, where it then split into male and female. Your mom was nearing that split, when two men, both big and black, emerged from out the male side.

“No nigga, his old shit was his best shit. I don’t know what the fuck he on about now with all this Hitl-“

They both froze at seeing her there. They then continued walking. She tried not to look at them, having to nearly squeeze past them in the tight space because of their size (and the way they seemed to comfortably take up as much space as they wanted). It wasn’t until she was close (and better lit due to the light spilling out from the girl’s room) that they both stopped.

She was about to enter the woman’s bathroom, when she turned to look, seeing them standing there in the hall, staring. Not at her. Downward toward her body, taking in its shape as if possessed to do so. She quickly, sheepishly, disappeared within the bathroom.

“What’d I tell you?” she heard one of them saying to the other. The voice got distant as it continued down the hall. “White women are evolving.”

She shut the door of the stall, took down her pants, and fell to the toilet seat. She grimaced at sticky sensation against her ass cheek. She imagined a careless blonde, the kind that used to bully her in high school, falling to the seat with her flat butt, drunkenly letting a squirt or two out before finding the seat. Either that or getting up too early, while still not finished, booze-enhanced droplets falling from her, and not even trying to clean it on the way out.

Your mom felt the buzz rising, and it blurred the edges of this disgusting bathroom setting. She repositioned herself, smearing the urine against her ass, in order to make sure her big cheeks had enough spread (it had been a constant uphill battle in this regard since puberty), and then she let herself release.

The weight she had been carrying in her bladder, the pressure she had been trying to keep in, just spilled out of her, and in her relief she let herself go a little too much. A loud, dissonant trumpet blast blew from between her two ass cheeks. Her face, already red from the drink, had only deepened to a burning crimson. The sound echoed throughout the bathroom, well enough to let her know that no one else was in there with her. She was okay.

After she was finished, she got up, wiped herself, wiped the sticky urine from her ass-cheek (using toilet paper to wipe away the toilet paper before it which stuck with each swipe), and then, good Samaritan that she was, she wiped the seat so no one else would have to face the same fate. The toilet paper, wet with the body of another woman’s piss, fell into the bowl. It floated there for a moment, then there was a loud crash, and the water, swirling, dragged it into the sucking darkness below.

Your mom’s hands, smothered extra viciously in soap, were then cleansed with the falling stream of water.

She stumbled out into the hall and was greeted by a dark face.

He smiled at her for a moment, happy to see her again. She looked at him vaguely. Then he spoke. “That thang be fartin’, I guess.” He looked down at her waist, then he laughed, and continued on to the men’s bathroom. He turned around before disappearing. “Threw my Kanye West ticket in the trash on accident. At least I got another good look you out of it.” He looked down at her ass brazenly. She looked at him over her shoulder. She realized then that he wouldn’t stop looking until she was gone. So she walked out, feeling his eyes locked on her ass, savoring the way it jiggled with every step. The world outside got larger, throbbing in her drunkenness, until she was at the doorway, and then she was gone. The moment she cleared the corner, she could feel the weight of his gaze no longer resting on the cheeks of her ass. The walk felt less labored from then on.

She moved past the scent of chlorine, flowers, and booze toward the wicker stool. When she found her seat, she felt her nephew’s hand on her knee almost immediately. She looked down at the bar-top before her, seeing another pool of ‘motor oil’ ready to spill inside her.

“Got you another one. Don’t worry about it.” His hand rubbed her knee.

To your cousin’s shock, she lifted the glass and took it down in one fell swoop. She didn’t even grimace as it touched her tongue. It burned all the way down.

---

Origin Story

Washington State wasn’t so different from British Columbia where you were from. You thought that crossing the border would bring you into an entirely new world. You were young then though. You could be forgiven for that.

You sat in the front seat, the first time in your life, sitting in the crater usually left by your mom’s big butt. She now sat where your dad usually did and she drove, her face bright. The men at ‘the border’ kept staring at her. They brought you both within a small room, not doing it for anyone else. They asked her a lot of questions, and one of them leaned in closely across the desk as he did, smiling warmly. On your way out of the room, you turned, your hand in hers, and looked at the two men staring in your direction. Then you realized, it wasn’t you they were staring at. You turned and looked, seeing your mom’s ass nearly at the level of your young face. It was tensing and untensing with each step. You then got back in the car and went.

Your mom, after a moment of silent driving, suddenly smiled and looked to you, grabbing your hand with a squeeze. “We’re now in America, sweety?”

You stared into her smiling face. She turned to look back at the road. You did the same, seeing the landscape before you, looking for the ‘America’ in it. You couldn’t find it. It all looked the same.

Your cousin was older than you were, not by a lot, but it felt like decades. His voice had grown deeper than it had been the last time you saw him, he was significantly taller, and though he was still only a child at the time (the kind which would try to deny this by calling themselves a teenager), you saw him as if he were an adult.

You were intimidated and sheepish, even more than usual. You moved through the every room of his family home the way you used to, but without him coloring each moment, preferring to be on your own whenever you could. It was lonely in a way that was new to you. What’s more, you didn’t even know if he noticed it, his attention now consumed. His eyes, wherever they started, would always find your mom. It was as if his mind was instead a belly, and it could only be satiated by the sight of her, and every moment he didn’t have her locked within his gaze was like a desperate liminal wait until the next moment he would. It was like some added desperation had become central to his character since you’d last seen him. Very little of the ‘boy’ you knew was left.

You’d see it in his face. Then you would follow his gaze, like you had with the border officers, like you had with many other men, and you found, at the end of all that longing, the point where their eyes looked, directly at those two cheeks, still or in motion, tensed or loose. Every articulation of them like magic. It was a magic you didn’t understand. And you sat there, in the moment and outside of it, all at once.

The guest room was in the basement. Your mother slept next to you, cuddling you in the same bed. Sometimes she would get up in the night and head to the bathroom. You’d watch her go in her panties, watch the light under her door, then shut your eyes as she’d walk back, waiting to feel her arms around you once again.

A few days in, using the bathroom yourself, you heard a ruffling near the window. You sat on the toilet, staring up at the dusty pane, the blades of grass there tapping against it. You thought you heard a voice, maybe two, but you assumed nothing of it, only wondering what your cousin and his friend (also an ‘adult’ now) were doing in the backyard. You had been too afraid to check, only hiding down in the basement for most of the past few days.

Later that night, your mom, after ruffling your hair, went to that bathroom with her towel. You went upstairs, almost curious (still afraid) to see your cousin. You couldn’t find him anywhere. Only finding your aunt on her couch watching another movie. She looked at you. “I don’t know where they are or what they’re doing,” she said, and looked back at the screen. She shook her head. “Whatever it is, it’s probably pure lunacy. It’s best you don’t get involved.”

You went back to the kitchen and stood there, looking out the window at the moon. It sat, fully-developed, in the sky. That’s when you remembered their voices out in the backyard earlier. Curiosity got the best of you, and you, despite your apprehension, headed to the back door. You went outside, seeing nothing, afraid to enter the darkness beyond the porch light. But as you went, you emerged in the main body of the backyard, seeing no one. The light from your aunt’s room snapped on, lighting the darkness up, confirming first appearances. You then heard some ruffling beyond, by the fence, and frantic hushed voices, two of them.

You moved there, hearing them get louder. When you found the corner, you leaned forward and peered beyond it.

You saw them there, two figures, hunched like gargoyles, barely-visible in the shadowy cul de sac near the fence, standing around a rectangle of light. They were on either side of the basement window, each peering in.

“Oh my god!” one said, hushed.

“I told you,” the other said, and you could swear it was your cousin.

“Look at that ass.” Your face turned red, not from what you saw, but from what you heard.

“Isn’t it the biggest you’ve ever seen?”

His friend whispered something inaudible. You could hear the sounds of the shower within.

“One day we’re both going to get that.”

His friend said something that sounded like a question, looking up at your cousin, his face, barely-illuminated, looking like it was drenched in sweat.

“We’re going to-“

The sound of running water stopped dead, and both their voices shut with it.

They looked inside. You heard the sound of the shower door snapping open. They both kneeled there, giants compared to you, husky spirits, barely relatable. They looked within, the back of your cousin’s head faced you, but his friend’s eyes were wide, reflecting the light from within, reflecting the joy of whatever stood now within that light, made extra naked by its invasive shine.

Your mom emerged within the mirror, in the checkmark shaped section of it she had wiped clean with her palm. She stood there, feeling the cool air spill in from the window. She wiped herself down with a towel, wiping her hair with it. She stared at herself in the mirror for a moment, almost lost in the thought, then she turned and took a seat on the toilet. She felt a stickiness against her right cheek. She shut her eyes. She had told you to always lift the seat first before peeing. She sighed, exhaled, and then let herself release.

You heard the sound of water meeting water from outside. Your cousin’s friend had a look of fever in his expression, and he gazed down within.

After that, watching them in their silence, you heard the squeaking of the bathroom door and then the sound of it falling shut. They both stood there still, on their haunches, watching, as if viewing the ghost of the moment. They then both stood up and began walking in your direction.

You ducked behind the wall. You were scared enough of them in the light. Now they moved, tall shadows in the darkness, being opposite the moonlight, as you retreated. As you did, you heard them talking.

“I just want to eat M&Ms from that thing.”

“We will.”

“What do you mean?”

You backed up until you felt a wall hard against your back. You saw their shadows poking around the corner, getting larger with their voices. You felt around, feeling void with your right hand, and you ducked back within it. The world outside was now framed by the doorway of the shed you hid within. Two figures appeared in the moonlight, shadowy and strange.

“The stuff they have out there now. You can just knock out any girl you want and have whatever fun you can think of.”

You watched them get bigger, getting closer to the shed you hid inside of.

“You’d do that to your own aunt?”

They disappeared beyond the doorway, heading toward the back door of the house.

“Hell yeah, I would. You seen her. What the hell do you even mean?”

You heard their footsteps on the grass stop. “You mean… you’d, uh… your own aunt?”

“What kind of question is that? You’ve seen her. What do you think my answer would be?”

“Do you… do you not like her or something?” The voice sounded dry, almost like straw. His soul had left him, or at least had retreated deeper within himself.

“Of course I like her, why else would I-“

“I mean… is she a… a bitch or something?”

“No,” your cousin said. “She’s cool. Really cool actually.”

There was silence. You could hear the crickets in the night. “…and you still want to r…”

“Yes.” Your cousin interrupted impatiently. It was as if he were answering the most unnecessary questions in the world. “I want you to- to do that to her too. You saw that thing? You don’t want a piece of it?”

“I do… it’s just…”

“Listen, she’s my auntie. I’m the one saying she’s cool. She’s my favorite aunt and she’s married to my favorite uncle. I’m telling you it’s fine. We’ll dope her up one day and do whatever we want with her ass. All night long. Spank it and bite it and kiss it. Dive in it for M&Ms. Everything. Don’t’ worry about it. It’ll be fine.”

There was more silence. More crickets. You only stared at the grass outside, the moonlight shining on its blades.

“…when?”

“The next time she comes, we’ll be in high school then, right?” He waited for an answer that didn’t come. “By then we’ll know the drug dealers. We’ll know who to go to and what to get. We’ll have jobs, so we can buy enough for everyone we need to. We’ll have to knock them all out. And we’ll be strong enough, right, to move my mom and dad, and even my uncle if he’s here then.”

“And your cousin?”

“And my cousin, yeah. Everyone. It’ll just be our two dicks alone with that ass.”

“And they’ll be bigger then.”

Your cousin laughed. “Yes, they will. Big enough for that ass though? That’s yet to be determined.”

You heard their steps continue, then become hard. The backdoor opened and fell shut. Then the porchlight shut with it.

You stood there, within that shed, immersed in darkness. The little moonlight on the blades of grass being the only thing visible at all. The rest of the world was enshrouded in perfect blackness.

When you came back through that border, the agents were now Canadians, but they were no different. One of them leaned across the desk, asking your mom questions with a wry smile. When she got up to leave, holding your hand in yours, they both watched as you went. You turned to see them, saw where they were looking, and then you looked at their target, your mom’s ass, its cheeks tensing and untensing with each step just next to your wide-eyed face.

It was only then you were beginning to piece together the gravity of it all. But how could so much of the world revolve around something so small?

---

Gathering Clouds

Your mom’s big ass slipped from the stool slightly, and your cousin lost no opportunity grabbing her waist, stabilizing her. “It’s just so nice see you…” your cousin said. “Both of you.” That second part was an afterthought. “It’s been too long. You guys used to come to Washington every second year.”

“And then we moved to Australia,” your mom said. “And plane tickets were no joke.”

Your cousin’s hands were still on her waist. “And now you live with scorpions and snakes.” You watched his hand on the small of her back, just over her ass. “Moving on up, I guess.”

His confidence was doing something to you, the way he had touched her, and escalated in touching her, doing so in all the right places and at all the right times to avoid any issue.

“I’m going to order doubles this time.”

Your mom shook her head. “No, no.”

“No?”

“Not for me at least. You two have fun.”

“I’m already having fun,” he said. There was a silence after the moment. “Just have a double, for old time’s sake.”

Your mom laughed. “Old time’s sake? You didn’t even drink back then. You were like this small…” She held up her thumb and forefinger as if to measure a little wood sprite.

“And I barely drink now. Only when the company’s good. Or,” he looked to both of you, doing so very conspicuously. “…if I’m really happy.”

The world had become like a blur to you. Even still, through your hazy perception and dulled intent, you could feel two auras to your right, both perched on precarious stools like yourself. And even in this drunkenness, your mind filled with half-shapes and impressions, you could still, almost implicitly, imagine the flesh of your mom’s ass as it spilled over the edges of that stool, crunching against its wicker and putting strain on its three legs.

Your cousin’s hand, in your mind as you knew in reality, was further up her thigh and would occasionally rub it. He had started with his fingers and had graduated to a full palm with time. You somehow knew all this.

Your mom felt something. She looked down, seeing your cousin’s hand there. She blinked at it a few times. It seemed to be crawling up further, though she couldn’t tell. She looked up, seeing the back of the bartender’s head, his tufts of hair shaking as he polished a glass. She looked down at her own glass. Three of them sat there. She stared at them, seeing them drift around and through each other. At least one of these is fake, she thought. Has to be. Then she extended her three right hands to grab them, reaching them all at once, and she lifted them all as one to her one mouth. She felt it, all three streams, burn her all the way down.

There was a sudden scrape against the concrete to her left.

You shot up. You stumbled back. The stool fell and rattled behind you.

“Off to the little boy’s room?” your cousin asked.

You nodded, not even looking as you passed him, though people seemed to look at you as you stabilized to get over the fallen stool.

Your cousin looked down at his drink. He had ordered himself a double, but a single is what sat before him now. He had leaned forward and switched the double for your mom’s glass when the bartender had turned around. The contents of that glass was now all inside her. There was no turning that back now. He turned over to look at her, her eyes were barely open.

You existed in the distance, tiny relative to the size of her nearby face. He watched you, just beyond the shut blackness of her eyes, as you disappeared into the bathroom. His gaze then focused on your mom. She breathed in slowly, her bottom lip hanging open.

He felt his drink glass in his fingers, running them against it apprehensively. Seeing the bartender preoccupied in his peripheral, he sat for an uneasy moment, before taking his chance. He lifted the glass to your mom’s open mouth and poured whatever was left inside her.

Your dick was nice and hard in your fingers as you pissed in the urinal. The thought of those two boys, all those years ago, crowded around that window, warmed like fire by the light which shone within, came to you, nourishing you. You were now at the culmination of that. The buildup that was years in the making. The R-word suddenly came to you, a word which had always horrified and excited you, and there was an acidic flourish in your stomach and veins at realizing that that word, soon, would be relevant to your mother and her body, that that would be true forever. You imagined yourself, in front of a precipice, not a urinal, pissing off into a dark future that, falling into, you couldn’t escape from. You couldn’t believe it, you wanted to fall.

“That ass…” You heard those words. They floated in from outside though the window above you. “D’you see it?”

“I seen it.”

“Well you should have heard it then.” Your ears burned. “The bitch sounded like a cannon. Chik-chik-blow!”

The voices trailed off, and you were in no state of mind to even accurately wonder at what he was referring to.

You looked back down. Your piss splashed the urinal cake, foaming up, sizzling to match the sizzling within you. You felt like your cock belonged to a confederacy, a confederacy of penis, a membership belonging to all cocks, every cock on the planet earth, which, if at all examined realistically, were searchers for the same goal and inheritors of the same fate: pleasure, either through oblivion in a woman’s wet-warm insides, or in oblivion of an inner-psyche rich with a sort of primordial sexual drama. The violation of one’s own mother, done with such perfect discipline and craft, were a sweetness that could only ever be spiced with the taboo of it. You were convinced now that there were many more out there just like you, huddled in their own little worlds--who, if they could experience with their own mothers what was about to happen to yours, especially in the way it was about to happen, with minimal violence or danger or even memory of the event--would experience it with perfect and primal joy.

Your piss stream began to slow down. The foam beneath had reached its zenith, and as your piss slowed to nothing, the foam stopped and slowly began the slow process of dissolve.

You left without even washing your hands.

By the time you were out and into the open air, the foam was gone.

You stood there in the harsh sunlight, staring at the bar. You squinted, shook your head and continued. It was all in your imagination. Your perspective was so fuzzy, you couldn’t be sure you were seeing anything the way it was, especially at this distance. You continued, and as you did, nothing changed.

You put your hand out before you.

It fell upon an empty wicker stool, its seat frayed by a great pressure which was there not too long ago, but there no longer.

“Forgot something?”

You looked up to see the bartender there, polishing a glass.

You stared at him.

He stopped polishing, his fingers and the cloth sitting still within the glass.

You looked at each other for a moment.

“What?”

Then suddenly, the world shifted upward from within your stomach.

His nice clean bar-top, which he had just wiped down with care, was clean no longer.

Cloud Burst

Your cousin’s arm was snaked around your mom’s waist, and he almost pulled her along with him (hip-to-hip) by her underwear waist, which was pulled tight against his thumb.

He could smell her next to him, both her perfume as well as the sweat of her body. She had always smelled a little different from every other woman he knew. The only common denominator he could come to, especially given how normal his mother (her sister) smelled in comparison, was that it had something to do with the size of your mom’s ass. It was a sweet smell, though where it was sour, it was sour in all the right ways, and a thrill shot through him at the thought of him finally finding out the origin of that peculiar odor. Not just sniffing it at its source, but tasting it, becoming rich with it after a full night of being so close to it, their two bodies made one in forbidden union, the likes of which quelled some itch beyond relief.

His fingers unhooked from her underwear waist and he let them hang down on her lower hip, feeling where the curve of her ass started, feeling for the near future it hinted at. He was so filled with anticipation that he trembled, and he moved, nearly dragging her (or what was left of her) without any awareness of how it looked to any onlooker.

He noticed that he would need to be more careful only too late.

He turned to see the two murmuring faces. A father and mother, with their teenage kids, staring back at him. When he turned to see them, your mom turned with him, confirming for them the state they thought they saw her in as they passed. They stood immobile there on the walk, silent and staring.

Your cousin felt panic rising in him, and just as he was about to stop and explain that the woman involved was his auntie, that he was only taking her back to her room where her husband was waiting for her anyway, he, without realizing it, had been wrapping his fingers deeper and deeper within her underwear waist out of nerves, pulling them up and into a wedgie with clenched and nervous knuckles.

He saw their eyes crawl to those knuckles, and that’s when he realized just what position they were in.

He suddenly, without opening his mouth, spun around, your mom (her jiggly ass with her) spun with him, and he shot forward, bolting off with her jiggling next to him.

“Hey!” he heard behind himself, and he heard a body, heavy above its own clacking flip-flops, gaining on him. He rounded the corner, and, seeing a bush off the side of the path, pushed your mom, with his ankle before hers, so she fell behind it, then he sprinted forward, free of her. He rounded the next corner before the man could round the last one, steering clear of his sight.

He still ran, bolting forward, taking another turn, then another, and when he stopped, he only did so in fear that he had lost his sense of direction. He seemed to have lost his pursuer, so he doubled back, feeling relief at seeing familiar benches, even a crack in the walk which had noticed going past it multiple times this vacation.

He knew the bush he had left her behind was beyond the next corner. He turned. Suddenly, he stopped. His smile disappeared.

The bush sat there, and from where he stood now, nothing seemed to be behind it. He shook his head. He rushed up closer, not even concerned whether anyone saw him. The dread of a slipping glory toxic in his throat.

Upon nearing the bush, mercifully for his nerves, he saw her shoe emerge around its other side. A little further and her ankle came next, and the rest of her, big and bountiful, followed up beyond it. He took a giant sigh, the air he sucked back afterward being the sweetest pull of it he had ever taken in his life. He kneeled down, grabbing her, feeling her, tangible and real, in his arms.

He lifted her to her feet, carrying her off, hearing her murmur and breathe next to his ear. Nothing had ever been more dear to him, and he felt a deep inner peace at feeling her heaviness again next to him now.

He wanted to kiss and feel her up right then and there, imagining now, rubbing his throbbing genitals against her sleeping face, thrusting against the side of it, as if the threat of her absence had given him a growing appreciation of it over the things he was going to do to her ass (thing which had been more than a long-time coming).

“It’s okay Aunt _____,” he whispered into her sweet ear. Her face twitched at the brush of air. “We’re almost in the clear.”

 He rounded the corner and stopped dead.

He was frozen, your mom hanging there in his arm. She would have been frozen with him if not for the jiggle of her ass. Just as those cheeks settled down, they jiggled back into life as he thrust himself, with her, back behind the bush, and he walked speedily with her, the image of that goober dad there in his head all the while, singing like a canary to those two men in uniform.

The cops in this country (at the behest of the new president, who, according to rumors, acted on the behest of the American president) had a reputation. Dealing with the war zone of guns and drugs which occurred beyond the borders of its illustrious resorts had hardened these men, with discipline and acquired tactics, to that of a gestapo, ready to crack the heads of anyone they had a hold of. Tourists were safe of course, but rapey tourists? He couldn’t risk it. Couldn’t even risk trying to explain to them that the woman he carried was his own auntie. For all he knew, neither cop there spoke English.

He found a door within the concrete wall he passed, and hearing voices around some corner behind himself, hearing a white man, pompous and self-important (“I saw them going about this way. She was drunk! Real drunk, I mean! It horrified my wife and kids, and if I never saw it, I don’t know what’d ha-“) along with the voice of one of the cops, deep and ready to crack skulls (“Si. Si. Si, senor. Si.”)

He thrust your mom inside the door and slammed it shut, then he continued down the path, not even rushing, looking nonchalant.

Your mom lay inside, her body resting, moving in the darkness on top of who-knows-what rubble clashing and squeaking beneath her.

“It’s sick! Sick world these days. You come out here to get away from it, and it spits right in your face.” The voice rose, hit and apex just beyond the door, then began to get lower, along with the “Si. Si! Si. senor. Si,” which accompanied it.

Your mom lay there, a shapely and soft husk with nothing approaching consciousness inside herself, her whole world a thick black void. If her only soul now was flesh, the most “soulful” part of her rose and fell with each breath in the darkness. The extent of its softness, and the roundness of its shape, non-visible to even the ghosts who lingered there.

There was suddenly a ruffling outside the door, a clicking of the knob. The sound of a confused male voice. Then a scratching on the doorknob, a click, and the door swung open. A ray of light, broken by only a silhouetted shadow (stopped dead), fell over her form.

Your cousin saw the man and the officers pass, shut his eyes, and breathed a sigh of relief. He stepped out from behind the bowling signage and placed his hand on it as if to thank it for the hiding place. He then turned, grabbing his breath, hearing the bloviating voice behind him in the distance, along with its new “si”-man, each getting fainter, fazing out of his world like a bad dream. He came around the corner. Then again. He saw the concrete outcropping, with that door, extending itself off a larger structure. He neared it. His happiness growing, his excitement with it. He got close, saw the door, with her hiding safely behind it where he had left her. He grabbed the knob. He turned it.

It thudded in place.

His mouth fell open.

He tried again, his wrist exploding with motion, back and forth, tugging, pushing, trying to force the door open. But it sat, big and heavy, with your mom hiding beyond it, tucked securely within.

Salt of the Earth

He almost had a heart attack. He looked up over her shoulder. The doorknob rattled up above. Her shoes laid on the ground beneath it (he had taken them off in preparation of taking off her shorts next). He heard a voice speaking in english, something frustrated and urgent, almost panic-stricken, on its other side, its syllables jumping with every try at the knob.

He lifted your mom up with himself, feeling her there, the only woman he had ever held like this in his forty-one years of life. She smelled fascinating next to him (and unique) and he regarded her shut-eyed face, the pores which became clear to him in a way that no other woman’s ever had, being so up close to him now.

He shot forward toward the opposite door, the one which lead to the indoor lounge and their adjacent offices, but he tripped over his own broom and crashed down with your mom in tow, their two bodies landing on his pile of vacuum heads. He turned around, his eyes in a panic. The door had stopped moving. Somehow, even with his limited mental means, he could tell the body on that other side hadn’t gone anywhere. He lay there breathing, feeling your mom’s body, soft and sweet, beneath his own, shielding him from the hard surface of concrete.

He looked down at her, doing so with all the desperation of a celibate and meager life. She looked up at him, not with her eyes (which were clamped shut), but with the very blankness of her face, and it spoke to him with a love much deeper than he knew he would ever know.

He heard footsteps on the other side of the door, leading away. Busy footsteps. Deliberate, and he knew it was only a matter of time before that figure found the other way in through the lounge. He felt her in his arms, needing to extract from her all he could before his jig was up.

He leaned forward, ready to start off his meagre minutes of unparalleled bliss with a kiss against her forehead. That would be the height of his sexual experiences, because just then, the door to the lounge shot open.

Salt in the Wound

Smart Eduardo stood there, looking down at Dumb Eduardo (as the staff had affectionately named them, differentiating the two). “What are you-“ he stared shocked at the beautiful woman Dumb Eduardo had pinned beneath him. He could barely make her out in the ugly, poorly-lit janitor’s room, and for a moment, he could only assume she was a prostitute (what else could explain her willingness to get into a dirty closet with Dumb Eduardo).

It was the panic in Dumb Eduardo’s eyes which first set his superior off. He stared for a moment, then he leaned down, holding the knob for support, and looked into the girl’s face. Dumb Eduardo’s face floated above hers, panicked.

That’s when his smart counterpart realized, the woman in question wasn’t in any state of mind to choose her suitor. It was all falling into place now.

Smart Eduardo’s curiosity, birthed from his confusion, now birthed a growing and sudden disgust. “Retard,” he said, almost sounding like a question. “What are you doing?”

“I didn’t- I just- I swear, I didn’t.”

He reached down. Dumb Eduardo felt that soft body pulled from beneath him, the every stage of her form like that expanding and contracting elements of a great story as it slid against him and away. All of it pulled from him just at the moment of acquaintance. He shut his eyes, falling into the blackness within himself. Your mom was free. He hugged nothing but her vacant emptiness there on the floor.

“You’re lucky I’m not telling the boss,” Smart Eduardo said, supporting her next to him. “Or, Jesus forbid, the policia.”

Dumb Eduardo just lay there, his torso and crotch against dusty concrete, his eyes shut.

He listened as the door slammed shut. It sounded no different than it did every other day. Yet he heard it as a great finality, like the door would never open again.

After a while, he looked up. The door stared back at him. “No,” he said in Spanish. “No.” His face dropped, and his line of sight filled with nothing but cold, hard stone.

Suddenly, the door rocketed open, and he flinched as if it would hit him.

He looked up, panicked, in fear that Smart Eduardo had changed his mind about the policia, that he’d be going to spend the rest of his depressing life behind bars after all.

Instead, standing there was a young white man. “Where is she?” he demanded in english.

Eduardo stared.

“Where?”

He only stared up at the figure with wide, startled eyes. “Que?”

A smart, clever, some would say dastardly, tongue dragged itself up the length of your mom’s face.

“Tango Americano,” Smart Eduardo said. The back of her knees were resting, springlike against his shoulder. He grabbed her shin, loving the feel of it. “Mamacita Susan? Becky? Stacey? Que?” This wouldn’t be the first American (or so he thought) he had taken advantage of. But she would be the most attractive, almost by a longshot.

Eduardo was like a carrion bird sometimes, perched by the beach, a master of looking busy, picking up odds and ends from the ground with a trashbag, in wait within the shadow of inebriated white girls, tourists, listening to their drunkenness, and their bad decisions and judgement, the two always correlating. It was a certain remote corner of the resort, one which seemed to attract drunk girls through Jesus knows what magic. And he’d wait until they’d fall, head over heels, into their own buzz, blacking out, and he’d come in, swooping in at them quickly, taking the more attractive of the two (the one he had his eyes on for hours sometimes), carrying her off to one of his private places (the resort was full of them), leaving a trail left by her two dragging heels, a trail which would break off into nothing at the first approaches of grass.

He was Smart Eduardo for a reason. He knew the benefits, some of them unique, of brushing away consent as any form of legitimate category. He had felt himself plunge between the legs of more than half-a-dozen now, and it only ever got sweeter each time. Some of them had voices so sweet in their drunkenness on the beach earlier, and had gotten drunk so quickly, and with such an air of self-aware naughtiness, that he knew he was breaking more than one crime doing what he did, but he didn’t mind. Age was just a number. It was the flesh which counted. Besides, Jesus either wasn’t watching, or was watching and had favored him, more than once. A treasure of time and place was still a treasure, and he shared the same disgust as Voltaire at the thought that the world worked with any other higher justice.

He looked down at your mother, almost feeling vulnerable against her beauty. She was by far the most beautiful he had ever gotten his hands on. And he had his hands on her, as far as he was concerned, fair and square. “Bellisimo.” His hand ran against her calf. He took the foot of her other leg, and submerged her toes within his mouth, feeling their taste. She carried a gorgeous smell with her, one which both glorified and humanized her. And the only thing he loved from his victims more thoroughly than their beauty was their humanity.

He loved white girls, loved everything about them, except the meager size, and embarrassing shape, of their ass. He let his hand slide down your mom’s calf, past the back of her knee, down the back of her thigh, before his hand found that big ass. He shut his eyes, he squeezed, and he felt all that “American” flesh push through his fingers like dough. “Mamacita Jumbo,” he said, the words broken by the toes in his mouth. He grabbed the waist of her shorts, and while almost salivating, pulled them up. Her ass, big and round and, best of all, white, came into his sight, covered by only a thong, his mouth fell open cartoonishly. Her foot came loose from his lips, now hanging wet in the air. “Si, Mamacito Jumbo.”

His hands came down like talons, minds all their own, gripping and kneading into her ass flesh, which seemed to infinitely fold around the contours of his busy fingers. “Jumbo culo americano,” he said, sounding like a mongoloid, overtaken by a primal lust.

Your mom lay there like a sham, completely at the mercy of this Smart Eduardo, who didn’t seem to be very smart any longer. Your mom’s sweet raunch filled his office, and intoxicated his already-compromised awareness further, with the cheeks of her ass, soft and bountiful, filling the every inch of his thought, so much so that he couldn’t hear the sound coming down the hall. At least not until it manifested itself in the most obnoxious and startling way possible: as furious banging against his door.

“Are you sure he’s in here?” Your cousin yelled to his new partner.

“Que?”

They beat the door with their fists, both in a fury, hungry for what they were owed, driven mad through being deprived of it just at the moment closest to consummation.

The door bent from their fists, and even cracked in places (audibly but not visibly). After a while of beating against it with the intensity of someone trying to escape danger, they heard the bolt click, and the door swung open.

Standing there was Smart Eduardo, looking completely shocked. “What is this?” his said in English. “Fire?”

Your cousin peered passed him, then brushed him out of the way. Smart Eduardo looked offended, but didn’t try to stop him. He looked at his coworker, who, at first panicking upon seeing the room was empty, slowly looked back, then, in turn, began the slow transition to hanging his head in shame. As Smart Eduardo scowled at him, preparing to dress him down in Spanish, the curtains on the window behind him bellowed in.

“Where is she?” your cousin demanded?

Smart Eduardo turned around. “Where is who?”

“The woman. You took her.”

“I did no-“ He stopped himself, remembering his hastily-constructed strategy. “I gave her to security, they’re taking her to the infirmary.” He stood there for a moment, back straight, his form empty of all guilt or suspiciousness. “Should I have instead brought her to the police?”

Your cousin had a sudden look of panic, one which he held down as best he could, but Smart Eduardo could see it in his eyes. Your cousin’s mind was ablaze: Had he misjudged this “spic,” as he’d been murmuring under his breath on the way down the hallway, Dumb Eduardo next to him? Had he found a responsible adult, one who wasn’t perverse and self-serving? Was there such a thing? And then another thought dawned on him, one which chilled him to his core: Was the man who stood before him, who had snatched your mom away from him and the janitor both in an act of perfect selflessness, was this man… gay?

“Uh, I’m sorry. That was my auntie. I thought maybe you were going to hurt her, that’s all.” Your cousin rushed past the man without looking up at him. Dumb Eduardo stood at the doorway as your cousin passed him. He looked extra dumb now. Apparently though, he was smart enough to understand the jam he had put himself in.

Your cousin was well down the hall, leaving the building through the lounge area on its opposite end. Smart Eduardo spoke, now in Spanish. “Is your need to violate a defenseless woman so extreme that you’re really risking jail time? Have you seen the new statutes on crimes against tourists? That’s life in prison, possibly the death penalty.”

Dumb Eduardo shuddered there, staring at the floor.

“The fuck out of my office,” his superior said, low and forceful. “You’re working overtime for the next month, and you’ll be paid for your usual shift. I don’t want to see you for the rest of the day unless I stumble on you picking the gum from under tables. You hear?”

Dumb Eduardo, still not making eye contact, nodded frantically, and shuffled off, his cock still hard, and his heart nearly giving out.

Smart Eduardo stared down the hall at him, seeing him duck back down into his little rat hole. Smart Eduardo only smiled to himself. He shook his head, grabbed the door, and shut it. He then turned around, looking at the open window, the wind billowing in ethereally. The rose from the bush peeked up and into his sight. He grabbed the window’s edge, leaned forward, and peaked down where his prize was waiting just outside.

When he looked down, he froze. He stood there without a word or gesture. His eyes filled with the promise of what could have been.

Just nearby, under his desk, your mom’s shorts sat discarded and pinned beneath the rolling wheel of his chair.

Brains of the Operation

Two pairs of flip flops clattered down the walk, your mom’s bare feet between them, her giant ass jiggling between their tight and muscular swimtrunk-clad butts.

“Bro, bro, bro,” one of them said.

“I know bro,” the other said.

“Bro.’ They moved in tandem.

“I know bro. I know. Shut up bro, please, shut up.”

The side-door to their hotel was nearby, and they only knew they needed to get there before being spotted. Beyond that, they’d have to take her up the staircase, a prospect which filled them with joy, having used that staircase to shoot the shit after their girlfriends kicked them out of the room (they were caught talking to other girls) and noticing that no one seemed to use those stairs or even know about the side door they lead to.

The woman in their arms, the woman they had discovered, her butt cheeks literally poking through the foliage of a rose bush beneath a window, was exactly their type. One of them, the only one who contained anything even approaching imagination, could almost entertain the possibility that they had conjured her from the sky with their conversation earlier (“I like em dark-haired, small tits, with a BIG OLE ASS.” “Fuck bro, so do I.” “With a cute mousy face! Sweet but… fuckable. So she looks good swallowing cock, you know?” “That’s exactly what I’m talking ‘bout, bro!” They high-fived without even signaling to each other that they should.).

They found the door, and they both dropped her at once, grabbing the door as one to open it. Her head lay in the grass. She murmured nothing, her head moving from side to side. Her thighs were lifted in the air, and she was dragged within.

Their hands wasted no time gripping and tugging at her ass cheeks as they pushed and pulled her up the winding embrace of the stairs. Whenever she’d trip, they’d drag her up, and they’d lift her, get tired or lose balance, and then set her down (with her tumbling) and then drag her again. All the while, her ass knew not a moment’s peace. Smacking noises and kissing reverberated all up and down the stairwell, with ghostly echoes at the top-most floor. Eventually those echoes were no longer ghostly, then they were no longer echoes.

One of the men cracked the door open and peered down the hall. There was nobody there. Their door stood just to the left.

“Do you think they’re-“

“Check bro, check.”

One of the men, big and muscular, his cap on backward with sunglasses perpetually pinned on top (even when he shielded his eyes from the sun with his large hand), went to the door and tried to look in through the peephole. It took him a while to realize it didn’t work that way. He opened the door with his card and peered in through the crack. Not seeing his or his bro’s girlfriend in sight, he smiled and stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind him. He turned around. “Oh!” he said, and went back out. His bro and their dream girl came rushing in, with him coming in behind them, peering down the hall with his eyes narrowed for a moment. Then he leaned back in and pulled the door shut.

“Working out’s been… working out,” the bro said, carrying her to the bed. “It’s like moving a pillow.”

“Either that or our girlfriend’s are getting fat.”

Your mom was dropped to the bed. She bounced on it slightly, then lay still. “I don’t know man. Fatter than this ass, I think not.”

“Yeah, they’d have to up the daily cheesecakes to get that big.”

“And even still, it would be all in the gut.”

“Yeah, Stacey is kind of getting big there, bro. I noticed that too.” There was silence for a moment. “No offense.”

“None taken, bro. You’re just telling it like it is.” They both stared down at your mom. “Hey, bro?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you feel bad about this?”

He looked at his bro, then down at your mom. Her ass cheeks sat there, fresh and in the open, slightly less tan than the rest of her, having yet to meet sunlight. “I mean, if she dresses like this and gets so drunk she can’t even stand, I think it’s pretty safe to say we’re just contributing to the young lady’s adventure.”

His bro looked back at him, his face forming into a smile. “Yeah!” he said. “It’s like we’re just another postcard on her trip.” He looked back down at her, her ass so big, it was impossible to be anything other than the room’s center.

“Another sticker on her suitcase.”

His bro again shot a glance back at him, shocked by the creativity of his friend’s words. “Bro…”

Your mom’s underwear was pulled like cheese-string up the length of her thighs, her ass crack, nice and long, becoming clear and unbroken to their eyes in the shade of their top-floor hotel room. Once the waist of her thong moved passed her ankles and toes, her legs fell back down against the bed and her ass was alive with a violent jiggle. Both men groaned happily.

One of them leaned forward, giving your mom’s ass a series of violent spanks, doing so in a rhythm, just to recreate the jiggle for him and his bro. His bro grabbed the back of her thighs to stabilize her, making sure that it was only her ass which would give. Some part of him, for the first time in his life, now understood the thrill of the scientific method.

Your mom lay blank-faced and shut-eyed, looking even dumber now than they were at their best moments. A stubbled mouth fell against her ass cheeks and began kissing it. “Oh,” it said between kisses, tongue-prods, and sucking lips. “She’ tastes so good, bro.”

The other bro walked slowly around her body, his trunks falling down his thighs, knees, and calves. “Let’s see how she like my taste.”

Her face was now obscured from the light of the balcony window. A long, proud shadow fell across the length of her expression in a thick, girthy line. If they were smarter, more alert, this would have been the full extent of their fun. But because they were not, they ignored the sound of two light footsteps, two feminine laughs coming down the hall.

That which cast the girthy shadow fell against your mom’s face, it was rubbed against it, the bro it belonged to humping into her. “Ooh, she’s so cute, bro…”

His bro was occupied, face completely subsumed within that ass (helping to obscure his hearing).

He pulled his cock away, let it fall there and remain erect, and then slowly, regarding her eyes, began to press it into her waiting lips. His balls met her chin at exactly the same second when they heard those two familiar voices just outside the door.

“Tell me you brought the card, Stacey, please.”

“You know I did, girl. Just because we’re both blonde doesn’t mean I’m an idiot too.”

“Yes, you are. We’re literally, like, twin sisters, bitch. And don’t you forget it.”

Your mom’s body, through the bros’ immortal terror for those two incoming harpies, was lifted with an inhuman violence. The cock in her mouth tugged against her cheek on the way out, making a loud pop as it exited. The balcony door was thrust open and the bro closest to their two incoming girlfriends, thrust her out as if she were just evidence of infidelity, and not the very source of infidelity itself.

The door behind him opened, just as the balcony door was thrust shut. He twirled the blinds closed.

They both turned around, breathing heavy and red in the face. “Babe!” they said in unison. “How was… how… you having fun?”

As they stood, as inconspicuously as they could muster, a little heirloom fresh from your mom’s ass, lay, soft, black, and lacey, on the floor at the exact halfway point between them and their girls. The girls, looked to their two men, then slowly, their gazes, moving downward as one, found the elephant in the room, itself smaller than even a fist (not knowing that it belonged to an even bigger ‘elephant’ outside).

There was a silence for seconds. Everyone stood motionless, the hum of the air conditioning unit the only source of noise.

Then, all at once, as if on a pulley system, one of the girls shot forward, clearing the distance, her hand coming against her boyfriend’s chest with a loud shriek. Before he could even shriek back, her other hand joined the fray and beat against him there in a fleury.

“Ah, babe! Babe!”

“Don’t you fucking ‘babe’ me! You’ve humiliated me for the last time, Kyle!”

The unaccosted bro looked to his friend. His girlfriend then, almost as suddenly, shot toward him. He turned to her, trying to put on a look of genuine surprise for the moment. “What’s going on with the-“ His girlfriend’s fist met his face. “Ah, fuck!”

The beating continued, both verbally and physically, and the pleading continued with it, going back and forth between apologizing and denying within the space of seconds, void of all shame. It got to the point where they forgot who was who, and the girls began beating on the other’s boyfriend. “You promised me you’d- you promised, you fucking scumbag.”

“Wha- what- ow!- What did I promise you, Andrea?”

One of the girls caught her feet within your mom’s underwear in the fury, causing her to fall against the edge of the bed, the one your mom had been plucked from moments earlier, and she rolled off. The absurdity of the sight caused them to stop. They looked at her on the floor, none of them saying anything.

Stacey stood there, staring at her friend. She had tore her own dress, and was now standing there with one of her tits hanging out. When they all noticed, they looked from Andrea to her. Andrea, getting up, wrestling with your mom’s panties around her ankles, finally got free, and gave her boyfriend another smack in the face for staring at her friend. “I thought she was going to say something,” her boyfriend provided as a lukewarm excuse.

The other bro, finding the moment, began to speak. “Babe…” he said, showing no evidence that he had just been in any scuffle, that he had already apologized. “If we had a girl here, where is she? Do you think we’d just bring her in here and then she’d leave without her bottoms?”

“These aren’t bikini bottoms,” Andrea said, holding them up with her thumb. “They’re underwear.”

“Yeah, but that’s all she was wearing when we found her.”

There was a silence in the room for a moment. Then another explosion in the form of swearing and feminine violence. That calmed down, and then Stacey stood there, breathing hard, her breast free and open again. “Wait a second,” she said. “If that’s all she was wearing…” She looked around. The closet was open. Even if it wasn’t, it wasn’t big enough to store the full body of a woman. She backed up a bit, peering into the bathroom, clicking on the light to do so. She looked back at the other three. They stood there, sheepishly. Then she looked beyond them, seeing the blinds and sliding glass of the balcony. “Ah,” she said. “You two think you’re so clever. You win Go Fish by the pool once or twice and you think you’re Abbot and Costello.” She moved passed them, turning to see the look of angst on their faces as she did, culminating at the point when her hand met the sliding door handle. “Well Abbot and Costello,” she said regarding them with a rising mirth. “Meet Frankenstein.” She turned and tugged at the door with one sudden motion.

She looked up. She froze.

And then she began screaming.

Salt of the Earth (Reprise)

Dumb Eduardo picked at the gum on the banister. His face was red with shame. His stomach uneasy with terror. He had picked this place to be as far from Smart Eduardo as possible, heeding the warning (“I don’t want to see you”), but some part of him, some hidden intelligence beneath it all, also made him feel safe being this high off the ground, and therefore, this far beyond the reach of police cruisers and the street patrols with their machine guns, hats, and badges (their license to kill). They were out in extra force this weekend in preparation for the both the big rap concert, and a diplomatic visit from the American president.

Dumb Eduardo began to reach some degree of peace, the thought of what he had just lost beginning to fade, the terror of punishment fading even before that, when he heard a sudden sucking/tearing noise next to him.

He shuddered, his picking tool falling from his grasp, tinkling against the banister and over the ledge to the empty beach-walk storeys below.

By the time he looked over, he saw the sliding door of the balcony next to his (which was what made the noise) being tugged shut. He stood up.

As he did, he was startled to see a hand resting, with soft fingers, against the balcony table. He looked over to the door. Its blinds were shut. Beyond it, he heard arguing, a violent scuffle, a lunatic cacophony. He looked back down, seeing the hand. He leaned forward, seeing something emerge beyond it. Then he realized what it was, that familiar sight, that sweet familiar being. A waft of air blew from their balcony to his, and he could smell it now, that old familiar scent, newly gained and lost and now gained again, in his nostrils. He leaned forward, risking falling through the narrow space between balconies.

The rest of her body appeared, and when he saw that someone had continued the dress-down job that he had started earlier, he gasped. The open line of her ass crack stared back at him expressionlessly.

As the fighting continued, he began to climb over and between the balconies. Every once in a while, there was a startling bang against the glass. He would look over, trying to stay calm, fearing he would slip. He didn’t begin to feel some semblance of peace until his foot met the floor of the other balcony. But when it did, the fighting within had stopped. And he stood there, afraid to make another noise. He thought about going back, feeling uneasy over what he knew to be a dizzying and deadly drop, but then he turned and looked to see your mom lying there, as sweet and as defenseless as when he had first found her, but now much more delicious, much more appetizing and plump there without her bottoms on, the line of her ass crack, between those giant and shapely cheeks, full and unbroken and clean in the sun. The size of the cheeks themselves uncanny.

He slowly leaned down towards her, knowing, even with his limited means, just how much time was of the essence. That’s when the fighting within continued. He knew he could move faster now. He picked her up, exhaling with troubled bliss as he felt her weight there, feeling the nudity of her ass against his belt. He pushed toward his balcony, knowing he would only need to get her over and then into that empty room, then he’d have her all to himself for as long as he liked. He would be here for a long time yet, of course. He was working overtime.

He pushed her over the narrow precipice, feeling his heart race as he did, feeling sufficiently obscured by the close nature of the balconies, the way they crowded in. He was only in danger of one of the guests on the same floor and side of the building stepping out onto their balconies, and even then, he’d be hard to see. He would just have to make sure she was over quickly enough, and therefore out of view below the banister. As long as she was out of sight. They wouldn’t question him alone as much, being uniformed as he was.

He heard the sounds behind him, then heard them stop. Your mom’s nude lower half, her ass up in the air, was just between the two balconies, the concrete beyond it visible well below, and he feared for her there more than he feared for himself.

Just as he stepped off one balcony to gain leverage from the other, there was a violent scraping noise behind him. He spun around to see a blonde face frozen in a terrified look of shock.

She screamed.

His eyes went wide, feeling the lack of anything beneath himself. He dropped, and the terror he felt in dropping was only multiplied by the terror of feeling what dropped, fleshy and perfectly-shaped, next to him. His final moments were not just ones of terror, but of guilt.

He fell too fast to notice that she was no longer beside him. He spun in the air, looking down, seeing the stone path along the beach quickly approaching his face.

Formative Moments

Mac and Elliot sat crotch-down against their hotel beds, eyes glued to the TV.

“You think it’ll show up on mom’s bill?”

“Who gives a shit if it does. It’s in Spanish. Mom doesn’t know how to speak anything except English and Karen.”

On the very screen their eyes stay glued to, a young brunette woman (Kelsi Monroe) rode one cock on a couch, her perfect back leaned, with her lips attached to the lips of another man off to the side, her hand massaging his balls.

“Do you think that feels good?” Elliot asked.

“I know it does.”

Elliot looked at his brother skeptically.

Mac didn’t look back, keeping his eyes on the screen, trying to look as stoic as possible. Kelsi’s hands stopped massaging, then they slowly slid up, finding the shaft, wrapping themselves around it and she began jerking it off. “That feels even better,” Mac said. “I get them to do that to me all the time.”

“You ever get a girl that looks like that…?” Elliot asked, entertaining the possibility that his brother might not be lying.

Mac shook his head. “No, not… I mean, pretty good looking, yeah. But no girl like this yet. I’m sure it’ll happen though. You just gotta learn the moves. And when I’m finally bringing in big money investing in crypto and stocks, I’m sure they’ll be swarming for me. Girls love money. Always remember that.”

They heard a scuffling noise above, and they both looked to the door, terrified their mother would come in.

Mac, after realizing there was no danger, played it off. “It’s just noises upstairs. Calm down. She won’t be back this quickly. She didn’t just go out to shop. She’s complaining to someone, I’m sure.”

“About what?”

“Who knows? You know her. It’s probably some guy who doesn’t even speak English. That woman’s crazy.” Kelsi was being penetrated by two cocks now, one in each hole, getting deep inside her. She was crying with pleasure, begging for more.

The two boys lay there staring at the screen, their erections as hard as stone against the bedsheets. “Would you ever…”

“Fuck the same girl with another guy?” Mac finished the sentence. He tilted his head, considering it. “It would have to be quite the girl.”

“What do you mean? What would the girl have to do with anything?”

“What do you mean?” he responded, annoyed at having to condescend to his brother, the amateur. “It would be sort of gay to share a girl with another guy. We’d be so close and everything. But if she looked like that, then I’d be willing to let it go. I mean… look at her. Girls who look like that just don’t fall from the sky.”

They heard a sudden scream break the thought. Then a shadow, long and outspread and cast on them through their balcony window, passed over their startled faces. Their gazes both snapped to the balcony. The sudden fear they felt was spiced by the unease they already had over their mother discovering them there, spending her money to watch what they were watching. They looked to the balcony as if they expected her to swing in there, some elaborate ruse to catch them unawares.

Instead, they saw a body, passing a lot more slowly than the first, tumbling as if it had bounced off something, down toward their balcony floor, all of it occurring in silhouette. It met the floor, then stopped. They lay there, their cocks still hard from inertia, staring at the shadowy outline of the creature. It didn’t move. It had too much shape to be an inanimate object, but not enough movement to be living. Its body extended, the black shadow of it through the blinds, with an almost feline shape.

“What the hell-“

“A jaguar,” Mac suggested with a strange confidence.

Again, Elliot looked back at his brother skeptically.

They were tin-eared to the busy sounds stories below, or the sounds of shock and horror just a floor above, when they cracked open the balcony door.

Sliding it open in one tug (as a way to push past the fear) a sight exploded into being before them which made their breathing stop.

Laying there on the cool cement, unscuffed and breathing softly, lay an equally-soft nude body, resting as if she had only wandered out there on a particularly nice day and had found sleep. The only clues of her origin, if they cared enough to look, existed against the soft flesh of her giant ass, which showed the fading imprint of a banister, one which had knocked her off her course straight down, saving her life in the process. If only Dumb Eduardo could have lived long enough to know.

The two boys stared down at her slackjawed as the television purred behind them: “Yeah, that ass! That ass! God, give me that fat ass, you fucking-“

Your mom lay there, her eyes shut and peaceful. She was like that for a while. Then her thighs were lifted into the air, and her beautiful form was pulled within by her calves and feet and  brought out of the sunlight.

They stood around her, watching her as she lay on the bed. Her ass, big and unobscured and beautiful, lay there for them in the flesh. All they had to do was reach out and grab it. Yet neither could.

Elliot looked up to his brother, expecting him to make the first move.

Mac stood there, self-consciously, feeling his brother’s gaze, almost crumbling from the shame of it. His mouth was dry, and his lips trembled.

“I’ve never seen one that looks like this,” he said, hoping it would obscure the equally-as-naked fact: he had never seen one at all. “At least not in person.”

Elliot stared at his brother, then, as his brother only stood there, he looked down, seeing the ass sitting before him, seeing the woman attached to it with her eyes shut firmly and peacefully. He slowly extended his hand, watching it near the ass. Then, as his fingers met it, feeling it against their tips, watching it give to the pressure, his pressure, and no one else’s, a fever overtook him. His hand, like a claw, gripped, with a full palm, your mom’s ass cheek.

“I love this fucking ass!” came from the TV.

“I know you do. I know you fucking do,” said Kelsi. “It’s all yours!”

Elliot squeezed the ass before him, kneading it, and in no time, he leaned down, pushing his face into it, feeling her ‘cheeks’ against his. “Oh,” he said, his voice muffled between them.

Mac watched his brother, shocked. “Let me have a piece.”

In moments, four hands scoured your mom’s ass for the cornucopia of sensations it provided, entire universes of sweet and forbidden pleasure. They were like scavengers rummaging through burnt-out sedans in a junkyard, deaf to all morality. Her cheeks gave, expanding and falling in places, rolling and rippling and settling. Her breathing was soft and steady, overwhelmed by theirs, which was euphoric and impatient, severe, almost unbelieving.

In no time, the boys were nude, their erections pink and inconsolable in the humid air of their hotel room.

They both stood hip-to-hip, their brotherly bodies combined, humping into your mom’s poor ass, pushing against her ass cheeks, massaging out the imprint of the banister, leaving more and more random imprints in its place. Their cocks fought for a hole. Every time one got near, the other knocked it clear out of the way with his own cock. Their legs and feet also jostled for position, with your mom’s intermingled among the fray, clear and smooth between theirs. Their testicles, ambitious with their storage of cum, rubbed against her ass. Your mom lay there with her eyes shut, her mouth hanging open, while the two boys, their busy shadows cast over her face, struggled for her.

Suddenly, Elliot’s cock found the hole and was plunged within. He froze.

“Ugh, it’s in so deep,” Kelsi said.

Mac stared at his brother’s cock, stared the way it had gone in, realizing now that his brother, two years younger than he was, had lost his virginity before he had. Even still, the cock just sat there. He looked up, slowly, to his brother’s face. Elliot just stood there, staring down, with eyes wide with shock and horror. He didn’t move, he didn’t do anything at all, but as far as he was concerned, he was now fucking a beautiful woman.

The TV: “Ugh, yeah. Yeah. Keep fucking, keep fucking, oh!”

Mac, getting over his shame, reached out with a brotherly hand and grabbed Elliot’s butt cheek, pushing against it to get him going. Then as Elliot’s thrusts started (his expression though barely changing), Mac went around to find your mom’s sweet face. He pressed his cock against it, humping it, taking out his ambivalent aggression and lust on the full length of her every feature, her cheeks, eyes and nose giving to his thrusts, cock-skin against face-skin, testicles against lips.

Just as he was about to plunge himself deep into her sweet mouth, there was a beep and scraping at the door.

They both looked over, muscles constricted in terror. The door rocketed open.

Their mom stood there for a moment, her face in a scowl, but it was only her neutral attitude, some distaste originating from an occurrence of no consequence somewhere on the resort (two policemen downstairs had pushed past her in a hurry. Why don’t they say excuse me? she thought. Then behind her: “excuse me,” sheepishly, and she scowled at the back of the third policeman’s stupid head as he passed.).

It wasn’t until she registered what was happening before her, with her two boys in her hotel room, on the very bed she slept on, that her scowl adjusted to what she was seeing.

The two boys, frozen in terror, stood there with twitching cocks, the ends of which were ejecting volleys of cum against your mom’s ass and face.

The heat in their mother’s face rose, her expression warped into one they had never seen before, one beyond the rogue’s gallery of horrible expressions they had seen the full rolodex of, assuming they had seen it all. They saw something, like words made flesh, rising in her throat. Then it came out, words to match the fury in her eyes. “You fucking whore! What are you doing with my boys!”

She shot forward, grabbing your mom by her hair, dragging her out and off the bed, her sons’ cocks still twitching, ejecting fresh cum all over the sheets, in the empty place your mom had just occupied.

“My hair, my hair. Grab my hair,” Kelsi said on the TV. “Get rough with me!”

“You dirty woman, you! How do you get off corrupting two young, sweet boys!?” She jerked your mom about so violently, it provided the illusion of resistance, only fueling her on further. “I should throw you off that balcony there, how would you like that!? Imagine it! It’s what you deserve!”

She instead sprung for the door, thrusting your mom out and into the hallway, nude as the day she was born.

“And you stay out there! On the street where you belong!”

She slammed the door shut, literally dusting off her hands with satisfied slaps. She turned around, seeing her two boys, both of them, as far as she could tell, victims of some predatory abuse.

“Mom…” Mac was the first to say, with puppy dog eyes no less. “She seduced us.”

“Ugh!” Kelsi butted in behind him on the screen. “That was the best fuck I ever had…”

Their mother stood there, neutral-faced for a moment.

They waited eternities within that second of dread.

Then her mouth rocketed open. “WHAT DID I TELL YOU ABOUT TALKING TO STRANGERS, MAC!!?? ARE YOU TWO STUPID!!??”

Her screams would have filled the building, were it not for the commotion just outside, and the sirens wailing stories below.

License to Thrill

Two cops shot down the walkway. One of them nudged an angry female tourist as they passed.

The third one, overweight and incompetent, struggling to keep his pants on (his belt was broken) as he trailed behind, pleaded “excuse me” sheepishly and ran around the bitter woman.

They saw the body on the beach walk, a crowd surrounding it. They had to usher the entitled tourists out of the way to get to the poor dead man. A janitor. They looked down at him, then looked up, seeing the row of balconies just above stretching up and into the sky. One of the cops looked down, trying to judge by the damage just what floor the man must have fell from.

“Did he fall… out of a plane?” the third one, trying to catch his breath, said as he came from behind.

The other two looked at him the same way they looked at dog shit.

The lead cop looked back up, seeing the two highest balconies. “It’s one of those two. The eighth or the seventh.” The second cop understood what he meant. The third did not.

As they rushed out and toward the door of the building, the crowd coming back around the ghastly sight, the voice of Smart Eduardo, terrified among the fray, not seeing the body or who it belonged to, assuming it to be a much more shapely and attractive (and damning) sight, said “Dumb Eduardo, Dumb Eduardo! You’ll ruin both of us.” Little did he know, the only thing Dumb Eduardo had ruined was himself.

The two cops jetted up the stairwells. The third stumbled upward, his pants falling multiple times, his heart beating in his throat. “I quit,” he murmured underneath his breath. “I’m done. I’ll work at the post office. I’ll beg them for my job back.” Even as he said it, he still continued upward, strung along by the pull of duty, it, along with his fat, leaving permanent damage on the joints of his skeleton.

The first two made it to the seventh floor, and they rushed down the hall toward the potential scene of the crime. Just as they passed the neighboring door, it rocketed open.

“And you stay out there! On the street where you belong!”

They paid it no mind, not even turning around to see, instead knocking at the following door. There was no answer, so they used the skeleton card to enter.

Just as they burst in, and the door shut behind them, the third cop made it up the stairs. He struggled for breath there, his palms on his kneecaps, for a moment. “You guys- you… just go without me. I’ll catch…” He turned, and when he did, he was frozen.

Standing there for a moment (or appearing to stand, leaning against the wall), stood your mom. He stared at her, seeing her in her nakedness there, seeing her eyes shut and her mouth open. Seeing, even from her front, the shape of her backside, big, round, and succulent, the flesh of her ass smushed against the old wallpaper.

“Ma’am?” he said, his voice husky.

Slowly, she began sliding against the wall, ready to meet the carpet.

He shot forward, doing so faster than he ever had, clearing the distance without even breaking a sweat.

She landed in his arms.

He stood there, shocked, feeling her against him. Her body, every inch of it, in every way, so different from his pig wife back home. And, most of all, different in her silence, and in her peace. He stood with her, hard, riveted by the moment. Then the haze was lifted as he heard the sound of his partners within the room ahead. “Do you hear that upstairs?” There was no answer. “Whoever did it is up there.”

As soon as they rocketed back up and into the hall, their partner was already down the stairwell, struggling for breath with your mom in one arm, and his other holding up his belt buckle. One of them called down to him on their way up to the next floor, and he gave a weak “Just go without me…. I’ll catch up” in return.

The two cops rushed up the stairs. As he heard their stomping deaden and die, he looked back down, seeing the stairs which awaited him still. At least they weren’t quite as bad going downward.

The light from outside blinded him as he kicked his way out the backdoor of the building. As he rushed past, Smart Eduardo stopped, seeing him, in full uniform, carrying the woman in question toward the security exit. He spun around, his face white. “I’m fucked, I’m fucked, I’m fucked,” he said to himself in Spanish. He said it as he walked out and around the corner, where the crowd hovering around Dumb Eduardo (or what was left of him) still stood. Some of them looked to him, hearing his cries: “I’m fucked, I’m fucked.” More of the crowd heard, more of them turned to look. And as they did, they obscured, less and less, that which they crowded behind.

Smart Eduardo saw it lying there, what remained of his dumb counterpart. And upon seeing it, he continued his little chant, only the emotion of it changing to a squeaky wail. “I’m fucked, I’m fucked, I’m fucked.”

Your mom naked feet were lifted off the pavement of the alley, her toes sweeping pebbles and stones aside, as she was thrust into the back of the police van. The door slammed shut, smothering her beauty in shadow. The cop got into the driver seat, then sat there, hands on the steering wheel, struggling for breath. “Oh god, oh god. I need to get out of here.” He looked over at the concrete wall of the resort he had just taken her from. She was a tourist, he knew that. And she didn’t belong beyond this wall. It just wasn’t safe out here. Yet, due entirely to his own initiative, here she was.

His breath slowly came back to him. He turned and put the car into drive. As he drove down the alley, seeing kids and old women pass, he remembered walking through here as a kid. There was no giant wall to his right, separating one world from another. Barely any tourists. But barely any crime either. So much had changed within his lifetime. The country hadn’t gotten any poorer, but the crime, oh the crime, had become so much worse. He looked in his rearview, seeing the ass of the affected woman, its two cheeks peeking up through the shadow, jiggling with every bump in the road. It was women like her, those who experimented with drugs (or so he thought) in their safe American (or so he thought) homes and nightclubs who had fueled the drug war here. The drug war which had taken his brother, destroyed his neighborhood, and even corrupted his own mother (he couldn’t even stand to visit her any longer—when he did, she was barely coherent).

After all the recent budget cuts in order to make way for a police force to fight these horrors of the modern age, he was laid off of his job as a postman (which wasn’t safe any longer anyways) and instead put on the frontlines of this so-called ‘drug war.’ A drug war he knew the ‘good guys’ were doomed to lose. No matter what the president (and his chummy American counterpart) thought.

He gripped his steering wheel, feeling his heart race. Then he looked back at your mom in his rearview, his nerves calming at the natural sight of her, almost being subsumed in a new serenity, one he knew could only be momentary. He couldn’t believe he was about to get his revenge on one of the very Americanos (or so he thought) who had made his life hell down here.

He found a tight alley, feeling secure that he was beyond being observed there. He would often come here to jerk off on the clock for that very reason, doing so after seeing a particularly sweet ass in the street, a pastime carried over from his last occupation as mailman. He sat there for a moment, looking out at the street beyond, seeing some minor signs of life and commerce pass through the narrow chink at the end of the alley. As he watched, he noticed a strange smell, one somewhat strong, somewhat not-right, but not too unpleasant either. He brushed it from his mind and turned around, seeing the ass that was waiting for him. Serenity filled him.

He came into the backseat, stripping himself as he stood over the ass, the only part of your mom that was visible in the darkness, illuminated by the thin line of light which spilled in between the front seats. The keys sat there, snug in the ignition as his belt dropped to the van floor.

He leaned down then, now nude, his belly fat combining into stacked rolls as he did. He felt for your mom’s hair, then gripped it, pulling it up into the light. Her face then stood visible now. “Gringo pig,” he said, and kissed her on her cheek.

He then turned around, a bushel of hair still in his fist, and he extended his ass, even bigger than hers, against her face, feeling his cheeks make contact with beautifully-shaped bone and flesh. Just as he did, he let one rip.

Your mom’s hair blew aside.

“You like drugs, gringo?” He asked. “Here, I’ll give you my special brand.” He let another go, it rippling through the fat of his cheeks, causing her cheek to twitch. She opened her eyes for a moment, her mouth open, looking at something, not registering the monster which sat, touching her face. Another fart ripped, then her gaze, all at once, was plunged within the space between those cheeks. She shut her eyes again.

His ass ran up and down that face, her every feature touched, rubbed into, by the infinite variation, form upon changing form, within that ass.

“Gringo pig finally gets what she deserves,” he said, enjoying that Canadian within his very ass. “What’s a matter, gringo? Don’t like my wife’s cooking?” ppppfffffftttttgghhhh

When your mom’s face was pulled from that giant ass, it made a sucking plop noise. Her eyes were shut, her bottom lip hanging open. He let her head fall back into the darkness, straddling her backside, mounting her, sitting there, breathing heavy for a moment, trying to appreciate just what was happening, not taking a moment of it for granted. Then he grabbed his cock and thrust it inside her.

The darkness reverberated into an imagined light in his mind as the pleasure subsumed him. Better than his wife of course, though that wasn’t saying much. Better than food, a lot better, would be just as accurate, but far more flattering in his worldview.

He began to thrust, feeling her big ass flesh against the cradle of his hips. The amount she gave against his crotch implied a possibility well beyond any he knew in his daily life. The wet clopping against him, the sensation of her soft skin against his, and the beauty he knew lay beneath him, deaf and blind to it all, read to him like all the combined peaks and valleys of the world, its various nooks and crannies, its smells and flavors, he’d never get to visit, being trapped in this nation, like it were an open-air prison. No wonder so many resorted to crime here. Freedom was barely better.

Except now… except now…

He let his face fall into the darkness, finding her sleeping cheek. He kissed it. “Sweet gringo,” he said, feeling parts of his own soul he never knew he had. He felt the joy in his body rise, feeling a resolution about to come. He told himself that even when he was finished, he would only need a minute, maybe two, and he’d be back at it, not wanting to waste any more time with your mom than he had to.

Just as he felt his balls go tight, he heard a giant, explosive pop outside, rattling the walls of the van.

And just as more pops, loud and thunderous, followed, along with yells and screams and threats, even a falling brick somewhere, he felt himself releasing within your mom, the terror, real and fundamental, only adding to the sensation, keeping him locked there, ejecting himself in a sweet gush, even as his mind and soul wanted nothing other than to flee.

Bullets cut through the van with each pop, whizzing overhead, leaving trails of thin, invasive light, at his final ejections, and then, as soon as he was finished, he heard a bullet whiz through the cracking window. He fell, covering your mom’s body as if it were his own, feeling a duty to it, one he had never felt for anything before. As strange as it was to say, it felt good.

Suddenly, and among all the gunfire, the driver’s side door clicked and pulled open.

A Simple Deal

“You sure they’re on the up-and-up?” the man asked.

His partner, wearing his red bandana, looked to him. “If they’re not,” he said. “We got something to feed them.” He lifted the assault rifle in his hands.

The other one looked down at his own, remembering the prior week, when he had taken it from the dead hands of a National Security Force member. He remembered being shocked after their successful ambush on the government supply truck that the Americans were now supplying the local government with weapons of this kind. That gringo is a madman, he thought, looking at the M4 in his hands.

He lifted the same gun to his shoulder now, already jaded, and aimed down the sights to a cat sitting on the wall, licking its paw. His eye narrowed, a grin coming to his sly face. “Pow!” he whispered, pulling the gun back in a mock kicking motion. The cat, as if it knew it was supposed to play dead, leapt from the wall to the other side.

“Looks like we got company,” the other one said.

A police van, from the end of the lane, came toward them. They both ducked back into the shadows.

“Do you think someone…”

“No,” his partner said. “If the cops knew, they’d block the exits. No reason to be trapped in here with us.” He looked at the driver, big and fat and ridiculous.

The other lifted his gun, aiming his sights at the unaware man. “Like shooting fish in a barrel.”

The van stopped, and they both stared at it.

“Why is this pig stopping?”

“Probably has to piss.”

They watched, waiting for it, hoping he’d get it done and leave before the men came. When they saw him disappear into the back of the van, beads of sweat began to drip through their hairlines.

“Do you think they’ll come out if they see a pig here?”

The other one didn’t say anything, only staring.

Then, as if the moment couldn’t get any more absurd, the van began rocking, with every second sway creating a squeak in the suspension of the thing.

“You know,” one of the men said. “When I used to visit my grandma’s farm, I would sometimes sit and watch the pigs fuck.” He lifted the butt of his gun to his shoulder, aiming it at the van, the place where he assumed two bodies would be, locked into copulation. “How hilarious would it be if he saw her head pop right as he’s about to cu-“

“There! In the shadows! It’s an ambush!”

They looked across to see three men in the opposing alley looking back at them, standing (one falling), lifting their guns.

The one in the bandana wanted to apologize, to throw his hands up and yell to them that it was just a misunderstanding, that there was a cop there and they had no choice but to hide in the shadows, that it wasn’t an ambush, that his raised gun had been the craziest of coincidences. His partner though knew better than to leave anything to chance. Not when they had guns too. He turned his rifle to the men, aiming directly to the one who had fallen. He pulled the trigger.

The man’s head fell back in a violent instant, the briefcase he held, the one which should have changed hands in an uneventful exchange, fell open, and white powder spilled to the dirt. The other two were under cover. One behind a dumpster, the third not visible.

“To the van!”

He shot forward, his partner laying cover fire. Bullets whizzed through the van in his direction, hitting bricks behind him.

“Motherfuckers!” he heard, in pieces through the gunfire, his friend yelling behind him.

He came to the front grill of the van, seeing one of the men coming his way. He stepped out, levelling his sight at the man’s chest and pulling the trigger. The man fell back, his gun going off in death, sending a shot cracking through the van’s window.

He saw his partner emerge on the other side, bursting toward the opposing alley, where the men had come from. He was about to call to his partner, who disappeared in the alley, but he heard more gunshots, then silence. Someone came back out. He sighed with relief at seeing it was his partner, holding what was left of the briefcase. “Go, go, go!”

“In the van!”

His partner shot past him, heading for the back of the van as more shots rang out. He provided covering fire, and the other ran to the driver’s side door. He got in. The key was already there in the ignition.

“Get in, get in,” he said, mostly to himself.

His partner’s rifle was busy being fired behind him. He could hear his partner’s usual taunts. He looked down at the center console, seeing the switch for the door at the back. He flipped it.

His partner, without even looking back, got into the van as the door was still rising, his gun still trained on the source of his worries. A head peeked up, he fired a few more rounds as the car pulled off, and the head ducked back down, swearing in his deadening Spanish as he did.

The driver hit the switch again, the door slowly rolled shut, covering the gunman, who was ducking with his rifle aimed to make sure the man in cover couldn’t fire another shut. Then the door slammed closed.

He turned around, throwing the briefcase to the floor. It only made a soft thud. “This means war, I guess?” He changed magazines.

His partner, still driving, only regarded him in the rearview mirror, his face wet with perspiration.

After a few blocks, just as he was beginning to feel calm, he saw something in the side mirror. “Shit, we have company.”

A car weaving through traffic was coming up swiftly from behind, men with submachine guns hanging out of its window.

He peeled the corner quickly, then did it again.

Something rolled in the back.

The gunman looked down, astonished. The driver kept driving, watching until he was sure he had lost their tail, then he looked into the rearview to say as much. Instead, he was distracted by something, sitting within a solitary ray of light, on the darkness of the van floor.

It jiggled there, both cheeks. He looked ahead, took another turn, and the case slid back in the darkness, meeting those two hills of flesh, causing them to jiggle more.

“What do we have here?” the gunman said, wryly.

The driver looked back to the console, finding a light. He switched it on. And what they had ‘here’ was now in full view.

Your mom lay there. The cop to her side, sitting against the wall of the van, looking up with terror, his hands already up as if he were already preparing for surrender in the darkness. His cock lay there, naked and already hard again. He looked back and forth between them. “Take her!” he said. “I don’t want her.”

“Whore?” the gunman asked.

“No, Americano.”

The gunman squinted. Then he looked down at her, seeing she was perfectly asleep. His mouth open. “Ooh,” he said. “We have a bad piggie here.” He let his gun barrel fall, poking into the giant cheek of your mom’s ass. “A very bad piggie.”

The officer shut his eyes, feeling a sting in his throat.

The driver only looked in the rearview, seeing the serene face of the girl.

The gunman knelt down, letting his thin gun barrel slide over her ass, watching the giant round flesh give to its firm steel. He then found her crack, big and long, and then, with relish, slowly pushed the barrel of the gun into it. The cheeks gave, sliding to the side for it.

As it went deep up her asshole, going to its fullest extent, his finger slowly caressed the trigger. He did so, even as he pulled the barrel out slightly, only to push it back in. Then again, then again, then again, until it was clear he was fucking your mom’s asshole with the barrel of his gun.

The officer watched with horror on his face. The recent emotions, his need to protect her, which just happened to coincide with the most extreme and beautiful orgasm of his life, still survived, but in degraded form. He lay there, terror for himself and her both. A postman’s heart in the uniform of a man of the law. It was so ridiculous. He was so ridiculous. This realization would have hit him harder, scarring him, if it wasn’t overshadowed by his terror for the beautiful gringo he had brought into this situation. If anything bad were to happen to her, it would be his fault.

“I think there’d be a pretty market for the ass of a kidnapped gringo.”

The policeman gasped audibly.

“Especially when she has an ass like this.”

His partner looked back at him. “Try not to blast it off then.”

The gunman only smiled, pushing the barrel in slowly, deliciously. “I wonder how well it could take a bullet. Part of me thinks it might eat the whole thing without-”

The van rattled, the air ripe with an explosive bang as its walls and floor rocked violently. The driver struggled to keep it stable, as the gunman struggled to stay up. Your mom’s giant ass jiggled wildly on the floor.

“Fuckers,” the driver said, looking in his rearview, seeing the avenging car back again. “They’re trying to P.I.T. us.”

One of the men in the chasing car fired, taking out the mirror.

The policeman sat there, nude, frozen with terror, but still hard, perhaps more hard than ever. He looked up at the gunman, seeing him struggle to remain stable. Then he looked down at your mom’s big ass, that thin steel rod, a hole at its end, shoved deep into her asshole. He looked back up, seeing the stabilizing gunman’s finger, stupidly, horrendously, out of mindless habit, still stroking that trigger.

He heard the chasing car accelerating from behind, ready to make contact. Just as it did, he jumped forward, pushing the gun barrel aside, plucking it, with a wet klopp, out of your mom’s ass in the process. Just in time for the gunman’s unstable, idiot finger to make contact with the trigger.

By the time it did, the barrel was aimed directly at the policeman’s face. The policeman shut his eyes, knowing this was the choice he made.

The gunman sat astonished, his ears ringing, your mom’s ass jiggling there on the ground beneath him. Across from him, on the wall of the van, through a thin veil of recent gun smoke, sat a gigantic nude male body, as full as it ever was, minus a head. Its arms lay out to its giant sides, its body language open and peaceful. Its cock was still hard.

Your mom’s ass jiggled within the moment of silence. Then it stopped.

That silence stopped with another gunshot from outside. There was a pop below, followed by the sound of flowing air, then the tut-tut-tut-tut of the bare tire rim.

“Hold on!” said the driver, shielding his face. And the van, bust rim and all rattled as if it were to fall apart. “No!” he screamed. “Not the school! Bendejos! Bendejos!” There was another apocalyptic crash and rattle. Your mom was airborn.

Just Desserts

Little Felippe sat with his arms cross, looking out the window at his classmates and peers, resenting their every smile, resenting their freedom to have fun.

“Are you thinking about what you’ve done, Felippe,” Mr. Lopez asked, sitting on his desk. “Bad boys don’t get to have fun. I didn’t make the rules.”

“You’re lying,” Felippe said, his voice simmering and low.

“I did make the rules?”

“You did.”

“No.” His teacher shook his head.

They sat there for a moment in the silence. “Then who else did?”

“Oh, Felippe,” Mr. Lopez said, sounding genuinely disappointed. He looked up to the ceiling, as if he could see through it, as if it were the heavens above. “Who do you think?”

“He’s not real,” Felippe said.

Mr. Lopez gasped. He looked down at the scowling juvenile face. “What do you mean he’s not real?”

“He’s not real.” Felippe’s crossed-arms only crossed tighter, wrapping himself deeper in his defiance.

“But if he’s not real Felippe, where do you come from?”

Felippe sat there for a moment, bereft of an answer. “But bad boys do get to have fun,” he said shortly, changing the subject.

“Not for long,” his teacher said, shaking his head with wisdom. “It always catches up with them. What you did to Esmeralda, as an example. She tells me you were doing that for months now.”

“And I never got punished for it.” He stuck up his chin.

“Correction, young lad. You never got punished for it…. until now.”

Felippe stared at his tormenter, his expression only growing more bitter. “If bad boys get punished, why does…” he stopped.

Mr. Lopez noticed. He leaned forward, inquisitively. “Why does what, Felippe?”

Felippe didn’t respond, only imagining himself, sitting at home, struggling to not let a single tear drop feeling the ripe pain in his ass, its length destroyed by belt marks recently placed. That belt was still in use on that day, as he sat there, watching it continue to smack against the cheeks of his mom’s ass. “Twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six…”

It was ten more than Felippe’s stepdad initially promised her. Ten more, and every single one of them (as he made Felippe very aware) was Felippe’s fault. A warning to never step in and save his mother from this abuse, no matter how horrible her pleading and crying got. After his stepdad was finished, he turned around, scowling at the little boy. Felippe’s mother, fell to the ground, sobbing, the heavy cheeks of her ass marked as her punishment. Felippe felt as if he could see the extra damage there from those added ten.

His stepdad glared down at him, his face enshrouded, a triumphant and proud demiurge. “If you want to cry, now’s the time. Being stiff-lipped about it won’t save your mommy now, will it?” He walked off, placing the belt, worn of its color by years of punishment, on the counter. “Remember boy, there’s no justice in this world.”

Felippe just glared back, in horrific pain, physically and mentally, feeling only a fraction in his backside of what his mom must have felt in hers. And still, no matter the depth of the pain, not a single tear fell.

“What makes you think it’s okay to hit people, Fillipe?” his teacher now asked, breaking him out of his memory.

“She made me angry,” he responded.

“Angry? Esmeralda made you angry and you hit her. Do you think it makes you a tough man beating up on a defenseless woman?”

“No… but it…”

“’But it’ what?”

“I was just so mad. It drives… it makes me…” he twisted in his seat. “It makes me so crazy!”

“Why is your response to frustration to use violence, Felippe?”

He sat there for a moment, stewing, no longer looking up with that defiant gaze. “What difference does it make?” he murmured.

Mr. Lopez tilted his head.

The boy continued: “There’s no justice in this world.”

Mr. Lopez was aghast. “No justice!? No justice!? Are you kidding me. Isn’t this moment justice?” He moved closer to the window rapidly with just a step or two, and pointed outside. “Look at them. Good kids, having good fun. Not sitting in here, wasting their recess with their teacher. You don’t think that’s just? You don’t think equal treatment for equal behavior is just? I mean, the world isn’t perfect, but justice still has a place. If anything, I think you’re in denial of this. It makes you feel better about yourself, doesn’t it?” His teacher looked down at him, inquisitively.

Felippe looked up at him. Stared for a moment. Then he was distracted by something in the distance. Something rapidly getting closer.

“Doesn’t it?”

A large shadow, like it were an eclipse against the sun, smothered everything. The air outside was rich with screams.

Felippe’s eyes went wide.

The window smashed, a large, sun-eclipsing metal object sailed through it. Mr. Lopez was there one moment, gone the next, swept instantly out of view.

The room rocked, feeling as if the whole world had fallen off its column. Dust sailed the air, the very nature of the room changed in an instant. Then, within seconds, it all settled.

Felippe, his face covered in drywall dust, his hair caked and styled by it, looked over to the opposite side of the room to see what was left of his teacher as his mangled form was pressed into inhumanity against the wall.

The engine of the van which did it was steaming, its grill holding the teacher there. The driver-side door of the van creaked and then scraped open. A man emerged, a dangerous looking man, holding a gun. The backdoor rolled up, and another one came out. Felippe looked up at them, still sitting in his chair. They both looked down at him, trying to regain balance.

A gunshot went off from the other direction. Felippe looked out the window to see a man firing from the passenger seat of a car. His classmates ran off in random directions on the playground, screaming, crying for an authority figure to help them. Esmerelda, off in the distance, seemed to be crying the hardest. The recess monitor lay, whistle still in her lips, beneath the wheels of the car, staring off into space lifelessly.

Felippe then heard gunshots from within the craterous mouth of the building, right next to his ear. If the low sound of the crashing glass, drywall, and metal hadn’t momentarily deafened him a bit, this would have done the trick. He turned to see the two men firing as they strafed off, nearing the door. They fled deeper within the school. Felippe heard the cries of some of the teachers.

The car outside backed up and drove off, the gunman screaming “catch them, catch them. On the other side!”

Felippe sat there in the silence of the moment for so long, he didn’t know what was what. Then he heard a creak. He looked over. The van sat there, its backdoor still pulled open. There was blackness within, deep and long, and nothing more. But as more seconds past, he could see something. Just a faint glimmer of white. Then more emerged, its horrible visage taking shape with each step. Felippe held onto his chair. Then the thing, shambling forward, found traces of the outer light, and Felippe stared at it in shock. What seemed to be standing there in a stupor, who seemed to be standing there, was his own nude and abused mother.

Then her face emerged from the blackness and he realized, with added relief and a new horror, that it wasn’t his mother at all. She stumbled out, pristine in form but not in mind. She mumbled to herself, looked around through bleary eyes, moving past Felippe, his eyes following her as she went. She then tripped over her own feet, and landed square and chest down on Mr. Lopez’s empty chair beside him, her ass jiggling into stillness. Her feet were pointed inward and her body below the waist rested on her knees. Felippe followed the softness of her calves with his eyes, up to her thick and white thighs, until he found her big and naked ass, completely pristine but for a spare imprint or two. It loomed back at him, its big and round shape somehow taunting him.

He then looked down at the ground to see Mr. Lopez’s pants. That was what she had tripped over. In the pants, torn to ribbons, sat something which shone at Felippe. It was a belt buckle. He stared at it, seeing in it his own reflection. It scowled back at him with judgement.

He reached down for it, grabbed it in his hands, ripping through the belt loops. Then he looked over at the ass, sitting there, waiting for him.

He stood up, readying his hand. “No justice,” he murmured. He grit his teeth, tugging on the length of the belt, feeling it go taut in his hands. “No justice!” With a sudden scream, he swung, with the full force of his arm, the end of the belt headed directly for your mom’s unguarded ass.

The New Vaudeville

Esmeralda bolted, screaming in terror, tears streaming from her eyes.

She had seen Ms. Garcia going under the wheels of the car.

Esmeralda was sensitive enough as it was. And though she was young enough to not truly understand the finality of what she had just seen, the sudden violence of it shook her at her core. The previous violence, the punch to her arm from Felippe, faded in her thoughts as she considered the shocked face of Ms. Garcia, whistle in her lips, as she disappeared beneath that car.

Esmeralda ran for her life, only able to assume that the gunshots were meant for her. She found a bush and dived behind it and lay there, her hands on the back of her head. She heard a few words being yelled after the gunshots stopped, then heard the car screech and squeal off. Even then, she wouldn’t lift her head. It wasn’t until a few minutes passed that she had the will to look up.

When she did, she loomed over the bush to see her classmates all bunched up in a circle around the craterous void, the exact spot where her classroom’s window used to be. She slowly got up, then, just as slowly, walked in their direction, feeling some semblance of calm in the ritual and orderliness of her peers.

She came up behind, then she stood there. Two of them looked back at her, they then instinctively cleared the way.

Coming between them sat a naked woman lying with her chest against a chair seat, looking out at them with an open mouth and half-open eyes.

Behind the naked woman, Esmeralda’s tormentor stood, big and proud, the buckle of Mr. Lopez’s belt shimmering in his gripping fist.

He swung. The belt strap came down, meeting the naked lady’s ass with a smack. The ass gave, jiggling with as much random variability as the destruction left by bullets or runaway cars. The shake of it could be seen from in front, and the whole crowd of students watched the violence, in awe.

Esmeralda looked up and into Felippe’s eyes, seeing them drowned with anger and joy both. He took another swing at the ass, sending it into an impossibly satisfying jiggle.

Esmerelda fainted.

A Glimmer of Light

Your mom felt a sensation. It happened in some part of the world, possibly some remote nook. Yet she felt it as if it were some piece of her. A vision of hills, fluctuating like water, came to her. Then a desert dune. Its sands swayed, being struck by some cord which seemed to fall from the sky, causing it change shape in wild reverberations, though always coming back to its original form. She saw a glimpse of light. It hit her as a pin prick, but with time, it came blurry and expanding.

Within the light, several figures stood motionless. After some time, some blurring of the light and shadow both, the figures appeared to her now as tiny people, midgets even. They seemed to stare at her, with shadowy faces. One of the figures, tiny amongst them, sheepish in the back, looked fearful, then unsteady, then unconscious, falling to the ground.

Your mom shut her eyes, felt another cord strike against the soft sand dunes, and then, like Lazarus, with some labored effort, somehow, she rose.

The little shadows backed up, a step each. She could sense astonishment from their gazes without even being able to make them out. She sensed astonishment behind her. The striking cord had stopped. She could imagine it, hanging there lifelessly. The sand dunes were still.

She began walking. The sand dunes shook in the wind.

The window of light expanded, swallowing her. And the little shadows stepped to either side, clearing a path for her. She didn’t even extend her palms and yet they moved aside as if driven by her will.

She stumbled forward, first for a few moments, then for longer, and longer, until she couldn’t sense any shadows anymore. She had no notion of how much time had passed, or how far she had walked. The atmosphere changed. Shadows crowded in on her, but the birds still chirped overhead. The sun was obscured moments at a time, cooling her in shadow, before emerging again, warming that which was cooled. She felt it all over, even in places that had yet to see the sun. She could see the sun and shadow passing over those white dunes, like the shade left by circling crows, vultures even.

She then felt the ground giving. The soft grass below, leading downward. She kept going, even as the trek felt more awkward, and then impossible. She took another step, and the world disappeared beneath her.

Then she fell and rolled, feeling the world rush past her, maybe for seconds, maybe for years. This continued until she hit something. She felt herself come to a complete stop, settling against a stack of leather and cloth-sewn rocks beneath her. There was a clacking beneath that, and the feeling of air rushing past through her hair, and over those sand dunes. She lay there, rocking, enjoying the strange comfort of it, for another period of indeterminate length. The repetition of the clacking lulled her into that returning blackness.

“Abre la puerta!” someone in the near distance called after a while. The clacking below slowed and then stopped. “Estoy aquí siempre a la misma hora. Voy por buen camino, idiota.”

“Vete a la mierda!” a voice called to the other from above.

“No, que te jodan. Haz tu trabajo.”

There was a squeaking of steel ahead. Then the clacking below started again.

She felt the sun on her, interrupted again by moments of shade. Her body rocked there against the softness of those leather rocks. The dunes rocked with her.

“Trabajo con idiotas. Completos idiotas.” There was a sigh, followed by some silence. Then a sniffing noise. “¿Qué es eso?”

After some time, the clacking stopped.

The dunes stopped rocking.

She heard a gasp directly above her. “It can’t…”

“Todos son idiotas,” was said off in the distance. “Desde el campesino común hasta el presidente. Estamos rodeados de idiotas.”

As she heard those words grow distant and slight, she sensed the breathing up above her getting heavier. The body which breathed staring down at her harder. And waiting. There was a shadow, like that of a giant man, cast over the dunes.

Cloudburst (Reprise)

Your cousin sat on a stool, one he found discarded in the bush. He had found it, propped it up, and had been sitting there on the grass for the last hour or so. His palms were against his forehead, which beat with a strange and alien terror. It had beat earlier with the anxiousness for his grand move, the one which had been years in the making. Then there was the terror of being caught in his sick game, which had come so close to being realized. Now he sat there, rich with the terror that began the moment he felt that doorknob fail to give.

He had scoured around the resort, trying to look as innocuous as possible, as he looked for any evidence he could of his aunt being safe and sound, trying to do so by scanning the faces of any member of the security staff he could find.

He knew this country didn’t play around with criminals, not since the last American election and the influence it had on the recent election here. Crime was being stomped out here with an iron boot. It had become a tourist hotspot again for a reason. Yet still, he couldn’t bring himself to trust anyone here, not even authority, and his mind had been filled with thoughts of those brown, foreign faces, looming down at his aunt’s white body, groping her various naked curves with happy hands, eager smiles on their mouths as they did, happy to get a taste of this foreign treat.

When he saw cops rush past earlier, his dry hum of terror began to rise to an acute unbearableness. He saw paramedics moving with a body bag, clearly that of a man, and he tried to tell himself it was only because of that that the cops had come. Someone had had a heart-attack and died, or an alcohol-related mishap. That was all. Even still though, he couldn’t help but connect the morbidity of one sequence of events with the salaciousness of the other. He imagined his aunt’s naked form, knowing it was too wonderful to cover up with a warm blanket, and too glorious, even just laying there in her thick softness, to not lead to all sorts of havoc as a secondary consequence. After all, how ‘professional’ could security be in a country like this?

He had wandered, dead in the eyes, until he felt that overturned wicker stool on his foot. And now he sat there, staring at nothing except the horror of his own thoughts made manifest, a hell of his own making, one dragged into the real world. It wasn’t only fear for himself which plagued him, but a gnawing guilt, like some risen demon back home which stalked the normalcy of that world while he sat here, in this foreign, truly lawless, land, knowing what he had done, even if no one else ever would. The softness of his aunt’s body, the softness he was so eager (and still eager) to violate, would wear the imprint of that violation forever. Even if it couldn’t be seen with the naked eye. Even if she made it out of here aliv-

His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a strange feeling. He turned to look.

Smart Eduardo stood there, staring at your cousin. He caught himself, looked away and walked frantically, further down the path. Your cousin watched him, feeling unease at that expression, even if it did only last a moment. Had he figured it out?

Your cousin got up, going in the opposite direction.

The stool sat there. Then a sudden gust of wind pushed it just enough that its chipped leg gave against the subtle incline. It fell over, laying there, discarded in the grass. The wind blew again, and nothing moved except the grass-blades and leaves.

Your cousin kept looking back at the empty path as he went, feeling the hedges closing in on him, feeling the sky heavy above. In the distance, he could hear music.

“My leather black jeans on

My by-any-means on

Pardon, I’m getting my scream on”

The sounds of it painted the sky, adding to his unease.

“Enter the kingdom

But watch who you bring home

They see a black man with a white woman

At the top floor they gone come to kill King Kong”

“I seen him,” someone said from around the corner.

“Fuck you, you did.”

“I did. I swear. He’s here.”

“I know he is.”

“I mean, in the resort.”

“Oh yeah, is Trump in the resort with us too?”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Are you talking to Trump and Kanye right now?”

“Fuck you. I know what I saw.”

Your cousin continued down the path, uncaring, the voices growing dimmer. The music growing dimmer with it.

He turned around and looked again, as if he were being tailed by demons. The very wind itself through the foliage sounded like whispers to his dazed ears.

Another breeze blew. He stopped.

He waited there, still staring at the dead path.

Another breeze.

His nostril twitched.

He turned around, facing the source of the wind. Following it, that strange aroma.

He turned the corner of the path, rounding the hedges, and screeeeech!

A line of carts, riding a rail in the concrete, slid in front of him, slowing to a crawl then stopping.

He stood frozen, the aroma rich in his nostrils now, as familiar as it was joyful. He looked down at what lay before him, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open.

“It can’t…” he stared down at it, waiting there for him on a pile of leather bags.

“Todos son idiotas.” He looked up at the front of the little luggage train, its highest cart reaching his waist, seeing its conductor getting up, tired and dissatisfied with his life, unimpressed with his world, riding in and out of the resort each day for fat Americans too lazy to carry their own luggage. “Desde el campesino común hasta el presidente. Estamos rodeados de idiotas.”

Your cousin watched him go, needing him to go, wanting it more than anything else in the world. When the conductor, still swearing to himself, moved into the bathroom, the door swinging shut behind him, your cousin looked back down.

Your mom, breathing there, her eyes half open, her mouth fully open, lay, nude as the day she was born, nude as she was in that basement bathroom years ago, her fat ass on that porcelain toilet seat. She lay on a bed of other people’s luggage now, sanctifying every suitcase and duffle bag. Her ass, which had been jiggling with the motion of the train against its tracks, was still yet to settle completely.

Your cousin stared down at her, her body as pristine as he had left it, but now completely nude, the way he always wanted to see her. Her ass lay there, finally settling, it staring back up at him with its blank face. All he had to do was to reach out and grab it. His bottom lip quivered. “Finally,” he mouthed to himself. He lifted his arms over the edge of the cart. “Finally.”

The music continued behind him.

“I’m aware I’m a wolf

Soon as the moon hitI’m aware I’m a king”

The last few lines caused him to freeze.

He didn’t just hear them off in the distance, from some loud-speaker somewhere, nor as an echo bouncing off some nearby wall. The lyrics had been repeated to the music by a mouth, one he had heard just a foot behind himself.

“Back out the tomb, bitch!”

He felt a sudden shock, a horrific pain, at the back of his skull.

He fell forward, towards your mom’s ass, watching it rise to him. Just before he could reach it, the whole world turned black.

All of the Lights

“Niggas don’t recognize you, man,” he said, sitting there, his arms on the table top.

“Not surprising. Us niggers look all the same.”

His cousin cringed at hearing the hard E and R in that word.

“Don’t say nigga. Say it the way it’s meant to be said. The white man didn’t bring us to the land of the free on boats so we could just go fucking up they’ words.”

The speaker blared in the background.

“Sometimes I feel like everybody is a sexy baby

And I'm a monster on the hill

Too big to hang out, slowly lurching toward your favorite city

Pierced through the heart, but never killed”

He turned in his seat and scowled. “They playing that bitch Taylor again.” He turned to his cousin. “The only reason they know who she is down here is cuz I made that-“

“-bitch famous,’” his cousin said dryly, repeating the lyrics from his song. “Ye, listen. You can’t just skip out on the second performance. People paid a lot of money to see you.”

“Watch me, nigger.”

Again, his cousin cringed. “Ye, my brother. Don’t you think you have some responsibility to the people here? Some obligation? The president had us at his mansion the other day. He gave us a toast.”

“That nigga ain’t shit.”

His cousin froze, noticing the lack of an E and an R.

“He a nigga cuz he ain’t black,” Ye explained.

The song continued:

“I have this dream my daughter in-law kills me for the money

She thinks I left them in the will

The family gathers 'round and reads it and then someone screams out

"She's laughing up at us from hell"”

“Yo,” Ye continued. “She spittin’ there though. Go tell ‘em, bitch,” he called to the song. “Tell ‘em the struggles of us Aryans.”

Ye’s cousin stared at him with concern. The concern had only been growing as the months had passed.

“Anyways,” Ye said, turning to the bar, grabbing his drink. “These niggas should be paying me for even being here. Just me stepping on they’ concrete is sanctifying this bitch, you know what I mean?”

His cousin only stared.

“They won’t even let me play my new shit. That’s my best shit.”

His cousin’s face turned burned a cinder red.

The song from the speaker was ending, crossfading into the next one. The first few notes emerged against the dying of Taylor’s voice.

“Ah, this is what I’m talking ‘bout!”

“My leather black jeans on

My by-any-means on

Pardon, I’m getting my scream on”

Ye stood up, throwing up his arm, matching the intensity of his song. He began screaming the lyrics, a full half-second before their natural place.

“They see a black man with a white woman

At the top floor they gone come to kill King Kong!!”

He began laughing, falling to his seat violently.

“Ain’t that the fuckin’ truth. These white Jewish motherfuckers can’t stand to see me giving it to they’ daughters raw.” He suddenly shot up, hopped up on his chair, then up on the table. “Let’s go somewhere, nigga!”

His cousin loomed up at the colossus above him, shining in the sun. “Where?” he asked meekly from the star’s shadow.

Ye was frozen for a second. He looked around, as if the answer to what drove him could be found in the world. Then he stopped. “D’you hear that?”

His cousin stared. “Hear what?”

Ye was speechless. “There! There!” he suddenly erupted. “That ‘tik-a-tik-a-tik-tik-a.’”

His cousin squinted at him, his mouth open.

Ye leapt from the table, grabbing his cousin by his wrist. “Let’s go!”

As they ran, the music fading in the distance, the sound of the tik-a-tik that Ye was raving about became audible to his cousin. The conductor was visible over some bushes, scowling, appearing to float in the mid-air, the train which propelled him, dinky and full of rust, below.

“Look at that nigga, floating there,” Ye said, nearly hopping to follow along the hedges. “Magic carpet ass nigga.”

Ye’s cousin followed, struggling to keep up.

The song continued in the distance:

“Four in the mornin’, and I’m zonin’

They say I’m possessed, it’s an omen

I keep it 300, like the Romans

Three hundred bitches, where the Trojans?”

Ye met the end of the hedges and turned. He froze. His head tilted to the side. His brows furrowed. As his cousin caught up, Ye stood on the tips of his toes as if to get a better look at something. Then he fell back on his heels, seemingly shocked by what he saw. He turned to look to his cousin, mouthing something. It looked like he said “Kim?” Then he turned back.

The song continued.

“Baby, we livin’ in the moment

I’ve been a menace for the longest

But I ain’t finished, I’m devoted

And you know it, and you know it, ahhh!”

Ye’s cousin watched him lunge past the hedge. He rushed up, rounding the hedge himself and then stopping dead. He saw Ye now standing behind a white man, one looking down into one of the train carts. He squinted confused. And then he saw it there, past Ye and past the white boy, it was a foot, soft and feminine and white, sitting within the cart. He leaned over, seeing the woman’s face, his body shuddering from shock for just a moment, believing it really was Kim, until he squinted, seeing the differences.

Ye stood there. As the music continued, the dread in his cousin’s stomach rose.

“Stop all that coon shit

Early morning cartoon shit”

Ye stood there for a moment. Then he turned around suddenly. The smile he flashed made the pit in his cousin’s stomach expand to that of a black hole. Those rows of teeth, shiny and white, were never good to see. He turned back around, and his cousin’s heart almost leapt out of his throat when he saw: Ye lifting up his clenched fist, mumbling something to himself, his lips in sync with the music.

“I’m aware I’m a wolf

Soon as the moon hit

I’m aware I’m a king”

His cousin saw a glimpse of an ass in the train car, gigantic and white and intoxicating, just the kind Ye liked. He knew that meant doom. Ye shouted “Back out the tomb, bitch!” along with the music, and his fist, as naturally as rain, came down, dead center, into the back of the white boy’s unsuspecting head.

Ye’s cousin watched with horror as the white boy’s body, limp, fell to the cart. And just as it did, clearing space, what he had thought he had seen, that big milky ass, appeared to him, as clear as day, in the thick flesh, waiting on a bed of leather. It was as if God had set up another treat for his cousin, first musical genius, then success, and now this. The pit in his stomach rose, knowing that things like this were never the work of God. They were the work of something quite, quite different. The possibilities as to what exactly were unsettling to consider.

Ye reached in, pushing the white boy aside, and lifted your mom, voluptuous, thick, and white, up in his arms. He held her there, looking down at her, feeling her like she were an especially enticing treat for himself. He turned to his cousin, your mom’s toes dragged along the ground. Two rows of shining white teeth, clear and malevolent, appeared between his lips. “Looks like white women is back on the menu, cuz.”

His cousin gulped.

High Society (Interlude)

“What’s that smell, sweety?” a man asked, waiting at the door of his hotel room, dressed to the nines. He looked to the bathroom door, his wife within, getting ready for the day.

“What smell?” she called muffled beyond it.

The man looked around the hotel, realizing now that it wasn’t his wife’s perfume. He then looked to the room door. His gaze crawled down its length as he heard rustling and whisperings pass by. He looked at the gap under the door, and he could almost imagine that strange sweet smell, as if they were pink fumes, billowing up with and against the sounds of those voices.

“Maybe it’s how they wash the sheets?” his wife called from the bathroom.

The man didn’t respond. Overcome with curiosity, the voices already fading, he pulled his door open.

He looked out, seeing a black man standing at the neighboring doorway (the other one must have already gone in). The one still standing back looked at him with startled worry. The white man stared at him for a moment, then sheepishly ducked back into his hotel room and shut the door quietly.

“So?”

He turned around to see his trophy wife standing there, tall and blonde and blue-eyed and skinny. She was wearing the new dress he had just bought her. He was stunned just looking at her. “Uh,” he said, shaking himself out of it. “It’s just those guys next door I think.”

“Oh,” she said, her amused smile fading. “Them…” She looked down, adjusting her dress. Her body within it healthy but without definition or shape. “You know how they are…”

He smirked. “Rappers? Yeah.”

“Yeah,” she repeated. “’Rappers…’”

All of the Lights (Cont’d)

Your mom fell to the bed at the center of the room. There was no squeak this time. It was so silent, one could almost hear the sound of her ass cheeks clapping together on contact. Perhaps they would have heard it, if it wasn’t for the loud voice which took precedent instead. “She smells like roses!”

“It must be her perfume,” his cousin suggested, staring at her lying there on the bed.

“Uh uh,” Ye said, shaking his head. “I know white women like I know the back of my hand.”

His cousin stared at him.

“It’s her ass.”

His cousin looked back at her ass. It lay there, perfect, big, and spectacular, so much so that nothing related to it, including anything related to scent, could be placed outside the realm of possibility.

Ye stepped forward though, not content with only words: “Let me demonstrate as such.” He moved toward it, grabbing the cheeks of your mom’s ass, and then shook them back and forth. As he did, the room filled with that wafting scent, overpowering, maybe even a bit sickening in its total saturation, yet not unpleasant.

Ye looked up from the ass. “I’m going to be smelling nice after I’m done.” He looked back down and stared at it. As he did, his slight smile began slowly to fade. His face was completely blank. Then a wildness took his eyes. “Kim?” he said. He only stared.

His cousin’s stomach began to churn again.

“Kim!?” Ye lifted his hand and it came down, smacking the ass, hard, not with lust, but anger and a desire for retribution. He did it again. Then again. His cousin, frightened, shot forward.

“Ye, it’s not… it’s…”

Ye stopped as quickly as he had started. His mania dying in his eyes, his face going neutral, then his smile slowly coming back afterward. He looked up. “You think she’s a jew?”

His cousin stared for a moment. “I don’t… nigga, uh… I don’t know.”

Ye looked down, his hand came against the cheek of her ass in a satisfying smack, this one playful. “It don’t matter none. Jew or White, she still a devil in my book. And with this ass…” He took a healthy palmful of her cheek, tugging on it and gripping for more. “She a nigger in my book.” He let go and squeezed again. “That’s how you know there’s a god.”

His cousin said nothing.

“Cuz he always makes sure ass goes to where it needs to be.” Two rows of shining white teeth appeared. “And my God is a loving God.”

---

Ye’s cousin stood there in the middle of the room, watching the sight before him.

 Your mom’s ass bounced on Kanye’s cock, her ass cheeks massaging her black thighs.

“Just like the porn we watched as kids, hey cuz?” Ye asked over her giant ass.

His cousin blushed.

Music, one of Ye’s unreleased songs (one Adidas threatened to sue him for if it ever saw the light of day), played in the background.

“It gotta happen, it’s gotta take its course

Either you give it up willingly, or I take that ass with force

Come on bitch, I came up in my Porsche

Not to have a little chit-chat, I want you out those shorts”

“White women are the best women, period

They make me go mad, they make a nigga delirious

They the reason I lost my shit, no, I’m serious

I fucked her drunk ass on tape, show it to the jury, bitch”

“Ye, maybe we should turn it down. The neighbors might…”

“White women always fallin’ on my lap

When they pass by, I give that ass a slap

If they have a problem, turn around or counteract,

I ready the same hand and give their mouth a smack

If they’ husband get involved, my bodygaurd’s in back

He reaches for his waist and he tat-tat-tat-tat-tats”

Ye’s cousin moved to the stereo and turned it down.

“Up! Up!” Ye screamed full-throatily at him. He turned it back up, immediately.

“Here I am, I fuck an ass with passion

This nigga is a ninja, a white girl’s ass assassin

If her ass is nice and she don’t want it, shit get rocky

Wanted white girls so bad, I turned into a nazi

I should turn into a rabbi cuz I want that Ashkenazi

No such thing as bad press, I’ll even rape the paparazzi

Go ahead bitch, go tell em what I’ve done

I’m politically connected, plus it’s too late, I’ve already cum”

“Too bad I’m too famous now for that home invasion

I used to dream about it, go up in that home, start rapin’

White women scream in fear, I’m the artist of the year

This is my work of art, get her white son masturbating” 

“To her ass getting clapped white women getting ravaged

White jews getting mad, black niggas getting cabbage

White women getting grabbed, white women getting sandwiched

Whites feel white guilt, let’s use that for advantage.”

Ye looked to his cousin over your mom’s marvelous ass.

His cousin stared back at him, terrified, seeing the white flesh of your mom’s ass cheeks cover that unamused expression every second moment. “You heard the fucking song,” Ye said, his face appearing and disappearing behind your mom’s shaking ass. “Let’s turn this bitch to a sandwich.”

Ye’s cousin, both with fear and rising thrill, it beckoning him where his better sense told him not to go, began to disrobe.

He came to the bed, smelling the woman as he got closer to her, her scent casting an ethereal haze over the moment. He slowly, perfectly, inserted his big black cock into her defenseless white ass, his worries, like they always did, fading with the overwhelming sexual pleasure.

Ye looked at him over your mom’s shoulder. “Finally,” he said. “You finished with that sour mug. Nigga was getting sick of looking at that all day.” He continued thrusting into your mom as he stared disapprovingly at his cousin, then he shook his head and got back to enjoying what his cock was feeling.

The song continued:

“White bitches, white bitches, you just can’t escape

I got cameras on my properties, I got your ass on tape

You sippin’ on that white claw, you suckin’ on that vape

Suddenly you pass out, me and my cousin rape

We ruin you for hubby. We make your holes all gape

And because we rich and famous, we don’t have to escape

Your beautiful white women, getting done in by us apes

We get inside those apple pies, we get inside those crepes”

“It’s all a big conspiracy to keep me from this ass

My nigga Adolf Hitler wants me to take a grasp

I come on in runnin’ with a gun and with a mask

I cum on in her stunnin’ bum, don’t run, just sit, relax

Goebbels comes in and he gives a nigga dap

Jews on the television whine a bit and then they crap”

“This shit slap so hard,” Ye said feverishly. “This shit slap so hard.”

“I know, I know,” your cousin said, looking down at your mom’s jiggling white ass against his dark pelvis.

“I meant the song, nigga.”

Ye’s cousin swallowed his embarrassment. “Me too,” he said, his voice cracking. Your mom’s ass gave to his every thrust, jiggling in reverberations up her hips. “Me too…”

Ye shook his head, then suddenly, looking up, his thrusts not stopping all the while, a look of shock took his face. “It can’t be…”

His cousin didn’t hear it, or heard it wrong.

“It can’t be… Kim? Kim!?” Ye’s thrusts picked up. “Kim!? Why did you take my kids from me? Kim!? Answer me!?” He slapped your mom in her mouth, hard. Then again. Then again.

His cousin felt that worry rise, but it was washed away by the sensation of your mom’s hole closing over his longing cock on its every side. Otherwise he would have stopped what was happening. Instead he only watched.

“Kim!? You fucking… you fucking…” Ye’s fist shot to your mom’s throat and tightened. “I’ll kill you! I’ll you kill you, you white bitch!”

His cousin felt your mom’s asshole tightening against his cock.

“Kill you!”

Your mom had little awareness to speak of, only a flashing of colors and lights, and the sight of two dunes, both now in constant and violent flux, being pummeled by pounding, even corporeal, winds, clouds of sand being conjured into the air, merging with it. Even still, that image began to grow black. It grew more and more black, and the world with it, all its worries and concerns, and stresses, all of it closing within a tightening black haze. All in all, it wouldn’t have been a bad way to go out. Many don’t get that lucky.

But it wasn’t meant to be. She heard a groan, a horrible grunt, like the pleasure of some God, perhaps the God of the earth which loomed below those dunes. He grumbled, and the whole earth shook.

Ye’s cousin looked down at Ye’s twitching eye, watching him empty himself, entirely, within “Kim.” Ye’s cousin felt the little angst he could still feel fading as Ye’s hands fell from your mom’s throat. Ye grabbed the cheeks of her ass, and Ye’s cousin just kept thrust against those cheeks, the fat of which was being squeezed and pulled wide. And this continued until Ye had nothing left in him. He then sat there, beneath your mom’s jiggling form. He stared up at the roof, then up at her. Slowly, his natural, even confused, expression gave way to a glimmer in his eyes. Then his mouth stretched and open, displaying two rows of pearly white teeth. “I think she really is Jewish.” He looked up at his cousin. He slapped her ass. “Cuz this ass was chosen by God!” He began to laugh. “That’s me.”

His cousin just shook his head, too in-the-moment for speech.

Ye got up, stood naked in his hotel room, stretching while facing the sunlight. His cock still erect, but giving up, softening, with each passing second.

Both his cousin and your mom (what was left of her) stared at him.

Ye felt as if he was being watched. He turned around. His cousin looked away. But your mom, not knowing any better, only stared.

He smiled down at her. “Another in the bucket. I’m a nazi nigga, fuck it.”

The song ended, crossfading into the next one. The first few notes shook the air.

“Speak of the devil,” Ye said.

“Man, these people took my kids from me

Then they closed my bank account

I got so much anger in me got no way to take it out”

As Ye watched your mom’s ass being pummeled, he sang along:

“Think that I'm stuck in a matrix

Where the fuck is my nitrous?

Yes, I am a cuck, I like when people fuck on my bitch”

His cousin began thrusting to the rhythm, not even realizing that he was.

“The shit that I'm posting on Twitter

They telling me "Ye, don't say that"

How niggas can't see me in public?

I'm driving an all chrome Maybach”

He stared down at your mom, stared down at her gelatinous white mass of flesh, her whimpering confusion and blankness of all thought and word. “Listen to this shit, bitch. Feel my pain.” The music continued without him:

“With all of the money and fame

I still can't get my kids back

With all of the money and fame

I still don't get to see my children”

He continued singing along:

“Niggas see my Twitter

But they don't see how I be feeling

So I became a nazi

Yеah, bitch I'm the villain”

Both rows of teeth appeared. The synthesizer roared. Suddenly, his arm shot up into sky, outstretched, flat, and forward.

“Nigga heil Hitler!”

The synthesizer droned on, your mom’s ass jiggling with it.

“Nigga heil Hitler!

They don't understand the things I say on Twitter

All my niggas nazis”

Ye shot forward with excitement, slapping his chest, then throwing up another firm and resolute salute. “Nigga heil Hitler!”

His cousin now, terror gone, concern gone, fear of what the neighbors would think all but a joke in light of this looming orgasm, pounded into this hot American (or so he thought) ass, sending wafting explosions of her sweetness into the air, filling his lungs with it, the room rich with the sounds of her slapping ass, the glory heavy in their mouths.

“Ugghhh” he squeaked, feeling it coming.

“Yeah, my nigga!” Ye called, coaxing him on. “White pride!”

The world spun in front of his cousin, then it came, releasing, her very ass cheeks massaging it out of him through his thighs, her very confusion and fear lulling it out, a pied piper, letting the every milliliter of cum within his black testicles eject and find home within her welcoming white body.

As Ye’s cousin fell on top of your mom, their bodies flush with one another’s, Ye sat on the bed next to them, nude and chocolaty against your mom’s vanilla. His phone was in his hands.

His cousin looked up at him, a bit of concern coming back (it would never truly leave).

Ye, seeing his cousin’s gaze in the reflection of his phone, spoke: “This one was a banger. Gotta let the world know.”

The song in the background transitioned to Through the Wire.

He typed something on his phone, hit send and dropped his phone on your mom’s ass and just sat there in the afterglow.

His cousin’s phone buzzed. He looked at it, seeing Ye had made a new tweet. It read: “JUST TOOK ANOTHER ONE. AND THERE’S NOTHING YOU NAYSAYING NIGGERS AND JEWS CAN DO ABOUT IT. WHITE POWER.”

Ye’s cousin sat there, staring at the message, wondering how much longer this could all last. He looked down at your mom, her sight calming him down, satiating him, making him feel that at least, in some way, all of this meant something.

Ye stared out the window, his glow matching the glow of the sun. He didn’t even turn around when he spoke: “I got an idea, nigger.”

His cousin sighed softly. “What is it?”

“Let’s send her to the man upstairs.”

The curtains on the window billowed, giving to the blowing 12-storey air.

The Man Upstairs

He sat there, big and corpulent and unashamed, in the built-in jacuzzi, there in his hotel suite, on the top floor of the building. “Great suites. Great suites in this country. Though they can’t match mine back home. No. Not one iota.”

The Secret Service member only stared at him.

“Nope. My tower’s dwarf these. Bigger, nicer. Better food. Better everything.” He laid back, though being careful that the water didn’t touch his hair.

The Secret Service member, feeling his exasperation grow to a fever pitch, suddenly spoke: “The Presidential Palace in this country is nicer than the White House though.” He stood there, shocked he had actually said it.

The President stared at him, saying nothing.

The moment was interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Go check out who it is,” said the president. He took a puff of his cigar. “Just make sure if it’s President Menolo, You don’t kiss him on the lips, okay sweet stuff. You seem to love him that much.” He ashed the cigar in his Eritrean ashtray (he brought it everywhere, a family heirloom going back to his grandparents).

The Secret Service man felt relieved. He didn’t care if there was an assassin at the door, it would be easier to deal with that than this giant ego. He rounded the corner.

He opened the door. His mouth fell open.

“Well, what is it?” the President yelled. “If it’s a guy with a gun, you’d tell me, right?”

He heard a voice at the door, one vaguely familiar. “We broke her in right. Just like Donnie likes ‘em.”

The President tilted his head.

The door shut.

He stared.

The Secret Service man rounded the corner and stood there, a woman, beautiful, white and naked in his arms. “Kanye West has left a present for you, sir.”

The President only stared, feeling his penis, somehow after all these years, again getting hard within the water and suds. He looked up to the secret service man. “His name is Ye now,” he said dryly. He grabbed his ashed cigar and brought it to his lips, sucking on it fruitlessly. “Show some respect.”

The Secret Service man, copping a feel of her ass as he did, slowly lowered your mom, already nude and ready for it, within the warm water of the tub, the warm water she’d shared with the Commander and Chief for the next few hours, dirtying her and cleaning her all at once.

“What did I tell you,” Trump said as he pulled her close to him, pulling her against his body, feeling her there, her unbelievable shape complimenting his ego one-to-one. “Didn’t I tell you?” He lifted her ass up above the water so his security could see it. Suds dripped down the length of her ass-crack. “The best ass – THE BEST! – always ends up in my lap.” He gave it a hardy slap, before taking it down with him, beneath the water, against his swollen nudity. It would stay there for hours. His bottom lips fell open, and his eyebrow tightened as he seemed to be trying to work himself inside her. His Secret Service man watched it, waiting for the moment when he’d be in. A smile formed on the president’s face, completely satisfied, balls deep. “The very best!” the President said. The water began to form little waves on its surface as the two bodies moved in unison. “Yeah baby, give it to me. Give it… oh, fuck yes! First Kim and now this. You have to remind me Reggie. Give that colored boy the presidential medal of freedom.”

 “I always do, sir.”

The President’s body gyrated his, cock running through your mom. “Never stop, Reggie. Oh god, yes. Never stop.”

Wet Earth

He lay there on the ground, next to the track, barely conscious and fully incoherent.

“No sé qué le pasó al idiota,” the conductor said. “Lo acabo de encontrar aquí.” He waved his hands in the air dismissively and walked off. “Malditos estadounidenses.”

You looked down at your cousin. His eyelids suddenly opened, and he looked up at you. His eyes were filled with the sweetest joy. “We did it,” he said.

You only stared down at him, confused, concerned, and a bit amused all at once.

“It’s like I told you. We’d take her…” He breathed deeply there for a moment, his hands on his stomach. “…all night long. We did it, man. We got her…”

You stood there, your cock hard at imagining what he could have done to her, seeing promise in her absence, the possibilities of what could be happening to her now. Her big, delicious ass. Whatever it was, it could only be so exciting. But whatever it was, it was more than exciting enough.

“But I guess you were right.”

You looked down at your cousin, speaking to you, or to the person he saw in your place.

“Our dicks weren’t big enough. No dick is. No dick is big enough for that ass.”

You stared at him for a moment, then you smiled. You heard a buzzing in the air. You looked up to see a plane, Air Force One, sailing through the sky, flying as well as could be expected with all that added weight, big and soft and smooth.

Harvest

The original plan was to head to Washington D.C. But given this added variable (and what a hot and shapely variable it was) they were going to take a little detour to an island in international waters.

“Can’t wait to see Jeffrey,” the President said, gripping all that soft flesh between his fingers. “Got this beautiful gift for him.”

“Hm,” the secret service man said.

“What is it now?” the President asked, squeezing those fat cheeks out of annoyance.

“It’s nothing. It’s just… the man seems to receive more gifts ‘dead…’ than alive.”

The president started laughing. “Won’t we all,” he said. The plane sailed softly through the clouds. “Won’t we all…”