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Commissions: Volume 3

The image above represents Gianna in the story America Part III: Gianna

Okay guys, the third round of commissions is finally here. I planned to add more stories to this post but I was out of space. So another compilation will be coming out in a week.

If you enjoy these stories, and would like one of your own, please feel free to commission me with the link below.

Just fyi, the prices in the link above are those listed for the word counts I have there. For the most part, I’ll be sticking to those prices. But if you’d like a story shorter than the smallest tier, or longer one than the largest tier, you can just DM me, on reddit, twitter, or fiverr, and we can work out a reasonable price and completion date. Also, if you're planning on going for a 4,000 word story, it might be a good idea to message me beforehand on fiverr and tell me about your plot synopsis, that way we can work out whether it should be 4,000 words or not. Or maybe the we can flesh out the story more together to make the length work.

Also, if you’d like to commission a story, but don’t want it posted to my site (or you only want it posted with edits), that’s obviously fine, just inform me of it and the story will be between just me and you.


Three's Company

Your mom stood on your porch, a column of smoke rising through the strands of her hair and out into the midday sunlight.

Should I ring again, she thought.

She watched as a car passed by. The driver in it glared at her and giant chest as he past. She looked at him skeptically, and when he was gone, she smiled.

She turned around and when she did, she shrieked and sucked by air.

Your roommate stood there, grinning. His chest bare. He was very comfortable with being that way. And the way your mom looked at him, it wasn’t hard to see why.

“Hello,” she said, dragging the O. “Is my son here?” Her eyebrow was raised.

“I don’t know,” your roommate said, his voice deep and smooth. “Is he six feet tall, muscular and handsome?”

She took another drag from her cigarette. “He’s handsome. Yes.”

Your roommate smiled. “No,” he said, shaking his head slowly and deliberately. “He’s not out.”

“Okay,” your mom said, and she dropped her cigarette and stamped it out with the toe of her red shoe. “When should I come back?”

Your roommate looked past your mom, out into the suburban street. He squinted from the son. He looked from one end of the street to the other. “You know,” he said, and as he said it, your mom’s eyebrow rose. “He could be back any minute. You want to come inside and wait here for a few minutes.” He looked up in the sky and squinted. “The son is awfully hot out there.”

“Sure,” she said. She smiled and your roommate back up, letting her in.

He grinned to himself, realizing how far backward he had to step to avoid her giant tits.

“I’ve heard so much about you,” he said as he watched her foot being removed from her right shoe.

“Oh,” she said. “I don’t think my son has ever talked about you.” She looked up at him with a grin. “Maybe there isn’t too much to talk about?” she asked playfully.

“Maybe there’s too much,” he said, his voice calm and cool.

Your mom felt a flutter in her chest. She looked the young man in his eyes. His bare chest so close to her.

“Come in,” he said, and they both moved deeper into the house. “Come on, I don’t bite.”

“I never said you did,” she said. “Though sometimes…” she stopped.


“Never mind.”

“You sure?”


“I think I got it.”

She looked up at him.

“You were going to say that sometimes a little biting is a good thing.”

She smiled in the corner of her mouth, despite her best efforts. “You’re a little forward there, aren’t you?”

“I’m not sure about that,” he said, and he looked down at her chest. “This whole time, I’ve been backing up for some reason.”

“What reason,” she said, and stepped toward him. “Show me.”

As he felt her soft body near up on his, not a moment of anxiety flashed through his mind. He was used to this. He lacked the same fear that hampered so many other men in their attempts at locking it down.

“Here’s the reason,” he said, and he lifted his open palm, pressing it slowly, deliberately, and calmly onto her giant right breast. He looked her straight in her eyes. She looked back. He then let his hand got back and forth, causing the giant tit to shake.

“You should see them when they’re out,” she said stoically.

“Show me,” he said, in echo of her command seconds earlier.

He first watched as his hand was removed and one breast came out, its nipple free and large, made soft by the hot summer sun. He then reached out and helped her with the other one, feeling its soft warmth in his hand.

Within seconds they were kissing passionately. I minute later, the two of them were in the kitchen doorway, with him leaning against its frame, and her on her knees, servicing his big cock.

He grinned thinking about the shock his cock had given you when you stumbled upon him changing that one time, the look of total demoralization in your face. Now your mom was on her knees, her giant breasts swinging freely in your mutual house, as she service every square inch of that very same cock.

More than that, she licked the very same balls which gave him his testosterone.

He then reached down toward her hand on his thigh, grabbing her wrist, he lifted her up, and she looked at him attentively. “Let’s go over to the couch,” he said, knowing that it was the one you purchased to sit and play video games on.

“Let’s,” she said, with a smile.

Her tits jiggled in chaotic circles hypnotically as he fucked her. He would tongue each nipple until he made it hard, then go to the other one. “These things must cut glass in the winter-time,” he said.

She laughed and blushed at the joke.

“Wow,” he said. “I can feel your butterflies from here.”

She looked at him, her body still bopping up and down, her tits slapping against her torso. She felt a bit embarrassed. Embarrassed by how little she could control herself. It had been years since she had felt this way, like a school girl giggling over her first crush. But she had only known this young man for less than half-an-hour. She pressed her head against his chiselled chest.

“What?” he said, feeling her hair against him.

“It’s just…”

“It’s okay,” he said, thrusting in his circular jerks to try to massage every part of her pussy’s inner walls. “You can say it.”

“It’s just that you’re so strong and… you’re gorgeous.”

“And you’re not?” he said, and leaned in and kissed her.

Your mom felt those sudden wave of orgasm coming back to her, though this time they were stronger than she had ever remembered, and they were coming from a deeper place within her.

Just as she was about to cum, she heard the front door open.

Suddenly, a bag full of electronics goods falls the floor.

She turns, the orgasm still coming to her, looking at you in your eyes. And then her head falls toward your roommate’s perfect chest, her eyes bashful as if to apologize for you. Not for what you were seeing, but for what you were about to see:

Your mom having an orgasm with her arm’s wrapped around your roommate’s perfect torso, as your roommate’s perfect face looked back at yours with a smug grin, and her pussy wrapped around his perfect cock.

Your mom’s body spasmed and jiggled about. Her tits bounced and she pushed against him, still looking at you with absolute shame and shamelessness simultaneously. Her perfect nipples pressed into his.

He spread her buttcheeks, showing you your mom’s asshole as her body slowly slowed down in its vibrating tempt, until she was nothing but a sweating mess sitting on top of him.

She tried to catch her breath.

Your roommate looked at you, his face massaged by absolute calm. “Don’t worry about it,” he said.

You looked at him with your jaw agape.

“It was only a one time thing.”

Your mom looked up at him with her eyes wide.

He looked down at her. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I haven’t cum yet. You still got a little ways to go.”

You watched as your heartbroken mother, too horny to lift herself off of him for her own dignity’s sake, was fucked by your roommate for the next few hours. Given that it had already happened, you wanted to get your fill of it, so that you could at least enjoy it.

After she was used, spanked, and left in her walk of shame, you had texted her and tried to call her in the weeks following, telling her you needed to talk. She was mortified by the prospect, but knowing she couldn’t avoid her son forever, she eventually picked up the phone.

You informed her that you and your roommate wanted to save money by splitting their rent three-ways. You knew that her lease was almost up, and you were wondering if before signing she could come and live with the two of you.

She sat there silently, gripping the phone against the side of her face.

“Listen,” you said. “If you don’t come to live here, I’m going to send him wherever you are.”

She smiled and pressed her palm to her forehead. She could feel those old butterflies fluttering. Like a school girl. “Okay,” she said. “Just a head’s up though.”

“Yeah,” you said with anticipation.

“I smoke.”


Paradise by the Slot Machine Light

Brie’s hair was still slightly matted from her birthday celebration with friends earlier that day. It wasn’t her birthday for a few days, but they all had to celebrate early because Ricky, Brie’s son, was taking her on a little weekend trip.

As the country shot past, its various sceneries rotating in and out of existence, Brie sat on the awkwardness of what happened month’s earlier. She didn’t know what it meant, or how to process it, so she left it unspoken. Though she knew that in her son’s mind, the image of that young man’s cock going in and out of her body, had been stored. She thought about that stiffened penis being pulled out and then slapped against her pink pussy lips as the eager eyes of her son watched. She cringed.

Ricky drove the car, his face showing none of this awkwardness.

“You ready to gamble, mom?” he asked with a smile.

“I think I am,” she said, a smile forming on her face to match his.

“Good,” he said, and his hand fell down and reached hers.

Brie didn’t know if it was just in her imagination, but she could swear her son had become more aggressively affectionate with her since that night. On top of that, he seemed to be actively trying to push boundaries with her. Again, that night bathed within the blue light of the television as her son’s glimmering eyes watching through the glow, may have left her with a paranoia which polluted common occurrence, but when her son would open up the bathroom door, while she huddled behind the clear plastic shower curtain with her hand over her crotch, so that he could grab his toothbrush, or when he insisted that they save money and share the same room at the hotel they were now driving toward, it all felt so uncharacteristically forward and familiar for her usually shy and reserved son.

Even just the fact that he insisted on driving there seemed strange. Like he was assuming the position of a new patriarch in their little family of two.

“Oh,” he said, seeming to recall a thought. “You almost forgot your bathing suit.” He looked over at his mom. “Don’t worry. I packed it for you.” He looked back at the road, released her hand, let his fall to her thigh and squeezed assuredly.

She sat there for a moment. “How did you-“ She couldn’t finish the question, not sure if she’d want the answer. Not even sure if she feared enjoying or being disturbed by it, which made it all the more disturbing.

She knew she would have to talk to him at some point about what had happened that night, and she knew it wouldn’t get easier as time passed, its cocktail of mixed emotions becoming volatile in their casing with time, so she forced herself to probe now. “How do you see me?” she asked.

He looked over at his mom, looked back at the road, furrowed his brow, and snorted to himself. “I see you as my mom,” he said. The corners of his mouth dipped low as if to apologize visually for not understanding.

“I mean,” she hesitated. “Since that night. How do you see me since that night?”

When he looked over at her, Brie noticed that it wasn’t at her face. He looked down at her body, her chest, and her butt in the passenger seat of the car. Her butt-cheeks clenched up because of it, and when they did, she feared she was giving him a thrill.

“Why?” he asked, sensing her discomfort, seeming to relish in it. He let his hand slide down lower upon her inner thigh, and when his fingertips reached the part where her thigh and her seat met, he pulled at her leg as if he could pull it toward him.

Her mouth was drying with unease. “I mean… do you wee me any differently since that night?”

He didn’t even look at her. He only let his hand rub up and down her inner-thigh in subtle circles. “I don’t know,” he said. “Do you see yourself any differently since that night?”

She looked away from him, instead looking back at the road. Not wanting to push any longer. Wishing she had said nothing at all.

Her looking away caused her to miss her son’s eyes lighting up as he looked in the rearview, seeing a car trail a few vehicles behind there’s.

They were in the car together, stranded until they reached that Casino-Hotel in that island of civilization at the center of this vast desert. So when her son spoke, she froze like an animal which had no path to escape through or hole to dive in.

“Have you seen Tommy?” Ricky asked dryly. His eyes open, moist, and aimed ahead on the road. “I mean since the last time?”

“No,” she said, just as dryly.

“Do you ever think about him?” He began to rub her inner-thigh more aggressively now. She looked down, both feeling and seeing, his pinkie rub its side up against her crotch almost directly.

She let out an exhalation of vague motive. A sudden urge came up within her. The urge to tell him the truth. But before she could, he continued:

“Do you think about what you did for him?” He looked back up into the rearview. His hand stopped. “I do.”

Brie watched as the casino came into view. “Antony and Cleopatra” was the name on the signage, and Greco-Roman flourishes sprouted off of yellow and gold Egyptian foundations as men and women of the common era anachronistically moved through it all. After Ricky had found their parking space and gotten out, dancers from the Jazz Age walked past, and Brie watched her son as he followed their mostly-exposed and athletic bodies, then she was shocked as he turned and looked back at hers, as if trying to imagine her in their outfits. Her waist, hips, and thighs were fully-clothed but the way he looked at them made her feel exposed, as if she were as ill-dressed as the young pretty women were.

Brie could feel her ass, sweaty from the car ride and the heat, and she thought of ways to distract her son with a task in order to make sure that she could slip in a shower without his awareness. She feared he’d try to come into the washroom otherwise.

The lighting inside the was dark, tinged with a blue-grey aura, and the lighting, while flashing in the usual casino way, seemed to, when all taken as one, operate at a consistent hum, the edges of every slot machine bearing this glow.

As she walked into it, feeling herself engulfed by its atmosphere, she could see her son, as if it were happening in this moment, bathed within the blue-grey light of the television, his sheet tossed aside as he lay on the couch, looking down at her body, even as she looked back at his face, with his hand on his hard penis, tugging it in a hypnotic bliss.

And though she couldn’t see a face, she could feel the hands, the breath, and the cock, of a younger man, over and within her. And she had to admit, even if just in the privacy of her own mind, it felt great. She had never felt more excited to be a woman.

As they got into the elevator with a half-naked man who was dressed like Julius Caesar, and her son again felt the compulsion to look at her, for reasons she was afraid to probe, the awkwardness came back when the man got off on an earlier floor.

Ricky stood just behind his mom, though off to the side. “I wonder what the showers are like,” he said.

Her butt-cheeks clenched.

She felt relief as the elevator doors opened, even though she knew they were headed to the same place, with the same amount of privacy, if not more because there would be nobody in there with them under any circumstances. He felt her son grab her shoulder with one hand and the small of her back with the other, just above her right hip, and he pushed her down the glowing-yellow corridor, towards the door labelled 777.

It was just as they were about to reach the door that she realized something. Ricky was trembling.

He grabbed the doorknob around her body. She turned and looked up at him.

The door opened.

His eyes reflected the darkness of the room.

His face was unmoving.

And then she saw it. She gasped.

In the reflective moisture of his eye, she saw a solitary figure standing like a shadow in the room.

She turned and looked, and before she could figure it out, she felt herself being pushed in.

Ricky stepped in behind her and he flicked on the lights.

Standing before her, his hands in his pockets, smiling at her was the face she tried to keep out of her mind.

“Hey Mrs. Ricky!” he said.

It was Tommy.

She turned around to reach for the knob of the door, but Ricky leaned to block it. He then pushed her back gently and locked the chain-latch, mostly for dramatic effect.

“No, no,” he said. “You’re not escaping that night this easily.” And he grabbed her hips, guided her forward a few steps, and slapped her on her ass with a smile.

She felt her buttle jiggle from the force of her son’s hand.

“I see she still gives off the same acoustics,” Tommy said. He extending his arms out. “Come here, beautiful.”

Brie put up minimal resistance, but her son corralled her like a loyal sheep dog, toward the man before her.

“It’s okay,” he said softly down into his mom’s ear. He said it playfully to put her at ease. But she could sense it. That he knew she wasn’t fighting against him. Against Tommy. Against the moment. She was fighting against herself. She could feel an added moisture inside her pants. And her son’s assuring voice made her aware that he knew, even if just in a roundabout way, that it was there.

“Come here,” Tommy said, and he sat back on the bed, slapping his upper lap. “Come sit on daddy’s lap.”

Ricky massaged the final doubts out of Brie’s mom with word and touch. “Let him do his thing with you.” He pushed his mom off softly and then sat down on the opposite bed, watching as if he were in a semi-circle on the floor, listening to an amazing storybook.

Brie’s lap filled Tommy’s crotch area, and his eyelids lowered in ecstasy as he felt her weight against him in that familiar way.

Feeling Tommy’s little friend through his jeans, her little friend, meeting him again in these unique and foreign circumstances, lead to a wave being drawn over her, and she panted so audibly that both Tommy and Ricky could hear her.

“Here,” Tommy said, and repositioned her ass just to feel it rub up against him once more. He grabbed her shirt and pulled down it. “I want your son to see these before I do,” he said and he shut his eyes.

Her tits came out, and Ricky, who was just removing his pants, smiled.

Tommy opened his eyes and looked down at them. “Ogh,” he said, and he snaked his head under her arm and began to kiss them from the side.

Brie looked at her son’s cock, now in the bright light, and she saw him leaning back, preparing to jerk off. She prepared herself too, just as Tommy’s hands came around her, coming together at her button, and with some fumbling manipulation the waist of her pants came loose. Those fumbling thumbs then poked into her waist and tugged downward. She sat up just enough for them to come down, and with that, her pubic region was now exposed to her jerking son in bright light.

It wasn’t long before she had to sit up again for Tommy’s pants and underwear to come down, and she fell back on it, feeling Tommy’s cock press lengthwise against her buttcrack. His middle and index finger poked into her pussy.

“Ogh,” Ricky said. “He makes you so wet, mom.”

She looked down at her lap. Moisture was smeared all over it. There was no darkness to hide in any longer.

She instead only arched her back and pressed herself into Tommy.

Soon enough, she was lifted up and brought back down, feeling the length of his cock reintroduce itself to her insides.

Tommy’s balls slapped against her pubic region as she rode, her son watching, tugging himself at the sight of it, his mom’s ear being kissed, Tommy’s forehead then pressing against her temple.

It wasn’t long before he had her bent over. Her butt rippled and her tits swung. Ricky bathed within the sound of his friend’s Tommy’s hips smacking against his mom’s butt cheeks.

She then stopped and held his thigh as she sucked his cock, her butt bent over and up in the air. Her son taking photos of it with the same eagerness that Japanese tourists took of the casinos outside and on ground level.

Then Ricky snapped more photos with one hand, still jerking off with the other, as mom mounted the giant cock of his friend. He watched her ride him, making sure to snap a photo when Tommy laid up the shot of her butt cheeks being spread open. The rays of the sun might not have ever shone between those two cheeks, but the lights of this hotel room sure did.

The day ended with all three bodies laying there like a sweating messes, two of them pressed against the other. Tommy’s spent penis sat modest and shrivelled next to Brie’s thigh. Brie’s ass sat there, well-used and inert, all tension from sitting in the car worked out of it within two hours of action.

As Brie kissed Tommy’s chin, he began to snore. She looked up at him and smiled. She got up, and her son watched her walk to the bathroom. He was still hard, still jerking off. He looked down at the thin trail of cum on the floor leading to the bathroom. He leaned back to see behind him and saw the bathroom door was closed. The trail ending there.

Brie grabbed the complimentary soap and shampoo on the edge of the shower tub and she set it aside. She took off the tie around the clear shower curtains and she stepped in. She turned on the shower and felt its warm fingers fall to her relaxing body. Come tomorrow, that body would be one year older. Five years ago, she though her life was over. That is had no new surprises or adventures waiting. How lucky she was to be wrong.

She hurt a creak, and she looked out through the foggy curtains, seeing that the door had opened with a hard-to-distinguish shape standing in the doorway.

It became bigger as it got close.

“Let’s shower together,” it said as it approached. “We’ll save time that way.”

The curtain was pulled aside and her son was looking at her.

He pulled the curtain aside a little more and his still-hard cock peeked around it.

He stepped in.

She stepped back to allow him room.

“Here,” she said. “I’ll wash your hair.”

The shower curtain was pulled shut. Two shapes moved within it indistinctly as if one.


America Part III: Gianna

Gianna was eighteen. She was quite the looker, everyone thought so. She had only one serious relationship under her belt, though many assumed she had more than that, mostly because of her skin-tight fashion, something which she had picked up from her Italian cousins. Her giant breasts, which hung out of her leopard-skinned top with an impossibly long cleavage, did not help this reputation.

Justifications are a funny thing, and when the first of many men to enter that room saw her stumble drunkenly into it first at her cousin’s party, he used her reputation as a justification for what he did next.

It didn’t take long for more to follow. Before the night was over, Gianna’s sexual partners, without her direct knowledge, jumped from just one to eight within a single four-hour period on a random Saturday night. The accumulated content of their desire leaking out of her swollen orifice.

This didn’t help her reputation. Nor did the swelling belly which she was beginning to be seen with as she walked shamefully around town, her giant tits, which were swollen with milk, hanging conspicuously above. Even still, she was raised catholic and she refused to get rid of it.

When he was born, she looked down at his wondrous gaze, an innocent thing who had no awareness of exactly what process brought it into this world.

“Hi,” she said to the little boy, feeling the silver lining of her cloud beginning to glow.

The baby looked up at the beautiful young woman, his welcoming party into existence.

She only smiled down at him. “Dylan,” she said with a warm smile. “It’s nice to finally meet you. I’m your mom.”

Amy stood in front of her mirror, her black bra hugging her large pale breasts, fitting their form perfectly. Her face was still, in between any discernible emotion.

She turned around and looked at her back.

At the place where her shoulder-blades met, the two straps of the bra were tied tightly together like a shoelace. She sighed in frustration. It wasn’t attractive, but she knew that if she were to try to strap it up normally, her bra would again fall like an inert hoola-hoop down to her ankles.

It wasn’t just that bra that was like this. Nor was it her bras as a category. A large number of her panties were doing the same, often hanging from her butt instead of her hips, before coming loose and slipping down her thighs or down to her ankles if she were wearing a skirt.

Her look of disappointment, as quickly as it had come from first a look of neutrality, just as quickly became one of rage.

John looked down at his math homework. His current question had set his mind to work, but he knew that the answer would be there for him with some mental effort. It always was. He bit the eraser of his pencil.

“No!” The backs of his mom’s fingers tapped him on his ear. “Don’t chew your pencil. That’s something only a monkey would do.”

John looked up at his mom, whose face seemed to be sullied with the marks of some hidden stress. He couldn’t be sure, but he felt like something was upsetting her. Something had been for the past two days. He couldn’t put his finger on what though.

Her dainty finger poked into the page with all the will of someone eager to tell him he’s wrong, only for her to scan over his work and his answer, and give him an unceremonial “good,” which sounded more like a concession than a statement of goodwill.

“Are you ready for your test on Tuesday?”

John looked up at her chin, flustered. He had thought the test was on Wednesday, but hearing his mom say otherwise so confidently, he knew she must be right. She always was when it came to tests. “Yes,” he said, and nodded. And despite that little mistake, he was telling the truth.

“Even still,” she said. “We’re going to study every night, me and you, before then.”

John only nodded his head deferentially, wanting to be seen and noted by her as eager. He didn’t know what was upsetting his mom, but he knew that that was what she needed from him, even if just to placate this sudden dissatisfaction.

As John continued his work, all under his mother’s invasive eye, his unnerved mood only increased when he felt his mother’s stillness. She stood next to him, imposing on him like a statue. Little did he know, her thong panties, being even looser than she thought they were, had fallen down to her ankles, and she stood, as still as stone, just hoping to whatever spirits would listen that her son wouldn’t see them sitting there below him.

As she stood in perpetual grimace, the only bright side she could see was that she’d have more than enough money to buy a whole new set of underwear with all the overtime shifts she had put in at the restaurant. But the thought still couldn’t be shaken, that her son had a friend who would, could, and had invaded her privacy and personal property with a vicious disrespect and lack of honor. And as she gritted the teeth in her mouth, she was sure she knew exactly who that friend was.

She only knew of one person in her entire life who entered a house through its window.


Gianna’s scissors ran through the grey hairs of Mr. Morrison, the few he had left, and part of her entertained the idea of sabotaging his look. She had the power. Every hairdresser did, and she sat on it with all the assurance she used to have of power back when she was a stripper. She looked at herself in the mirror, a smile forming above her gigantic cleavage line, which hung above the man’s head. Then she snapped herself back into the real world with a head shake, her tits shaking slightly along with it. She didn’t want to lose this job. What would she do then? Go back to stripping?

Mr. Morrison’s trucker hat sat on her shelf, where he had slapped it down without concern. She stopped looking down at it. Every time she did, she caught Mr. Morrison’s gaze in the mirror, and she’d recoil at his smiling eyes.

When she was finished, she showed him the back of his head with a hand-mirror. “I’m beginning to look pretty if I don’t say so myself.” He got up to turn and look at her without giving her time to unbutton his gown. “Almost as pretty as you.”

Gianna rolled her eyes. She began speaking in her perpetually loud voice as she turned around and headed for the till. “Should I expect payment this time, or are we putting this on your ‘tab’ again?”

She heard the sound before she could even feel it.

His rough hand rested on her right butt cheek for a second, before he let it fall off.

She turned around, looking at the man who had just spanked her. “You going to take this off?” he asked, shrugging against the apron with his shoulders.

She grit her teeth in her mouth as she grabbed the hems of his apron. She slowly and deceptively began to unbutton the apron, the corners of her mouth containing a rising joy.

“Is it almost my turn?” Mr. Morrison asked, looking at her again through the mirror.

She looked up into his eyes.

“Or are you going to go with every other guy in this town first?”

She didn’t say anything. She only glared at him while still unbuttoning.

“That’s okay,” he said. “I’ll gladly wait.” And then he began shrugging again. “Well, are you going to get this off or not?”

She smiled. Before she had loosed the last few buttons at the top, she tugged on it with a sudden jerk and Mr. Morrison went “akgh” as the apron chafed violent against his chest and neck, so much so that he shut his eyes, missing the tectonic jiggle of her chest.

He looked back at the pretty woman, the subtle signs of humor in her face slowly becoming conspicuous as she glared at the old man, daring him to push it further.

She took the man’s money (“Sixteen dollars please!” with her hand out, palm upward), knowing that he wouldn’t dare put this one on his tab. Though he paid without tip. And she watched as he walked out through the parking lot, his new haircut covered with his hat. He held his throat as he waddled.

She smiled, then she looked up at the clock. Just eleven more minutes until her shift was over.

As she looked at the ticking second hand, the bell dinged. She looked and saw a man coming in through the front door. It was Berry. She had seen him doing construction work around town, quite often. She had heard about his recent breakup.

He looked at her from the doorway, realizing she was the only one there. “Still time for a haircut?” he asked.

She looked at the handsome thirty-year old, turn around and motioned toward the various empty seats. “If you can find a spot,” she said. She turned around and looked him in his eyes. She smiled.

He smiled with her.


John and Amy sat in their living room, flipping through channel after channel after channel, the endless amount of content in this country doing nothing for them, especially after living here for months. The novelty of it had wore off on them, and instead they were left with an aimless dissatisfaction as they searched for what to watch.

A cable news station came on, and the host barked about the various evils of the current government. Amy changed to the next channel, and a different host, just as pink-faced and overweight, did the same, except he bemoaned the government that would be coming if people didn’t vote correctly.

John looked on, perturbed. There was something in this constant squabbling he saw on the television which bittered his taste for American civics. He wondered silently then what would happen if George Washington or Alexander Hamilton were around today. Would they still be beyond reproach, or would there still be pink-faced, overweight men on every television and channel complaining about them as if they were the ends of civilization itself.

He heard his mom click her mouth and he looked over to see a look of distaste on her face. She clicked to the next channel.

John knew that her distaste, while coinciding with his, was of a very different nature. As far as she was concerned, these men who barked and whined and demanded were acting with a great disloyalty toward the people who were involved with keeping this country functioning.

John felt the distaste for what he saw on TV slowly become his distaste for his mom’s thought process. And as he thought about her slavish devotion to authority and tradition, the image of that thong poking out of her yoga pants flashed in his mind. As he reflected over her hypocrisy, he scanned over her shapely body as if it were the map of that hypocrisy itself, and he scanned over every inch of her angrily, taking it in her voluptuous shape and the subtle color of her naked calves, thighs, and feet, which peeked out of her black skirt, and her shoulders, throat, hands, and fingers, which extended out of her red blouse. Every inch of her was polluted in his mind by this hypocrisy, her chest itself seeming to be swollen with it.

His mom continued flashing through channels, the reflected light from the TV coloring her shape different hues of red. Finally, the hues stopped changing and Amy just looked at the screen. “Ugh,” she groaned.

John looked at the screen, surprised to see Dylan’s mom Autumn Jones standing there, her world-famous large breasts in a red waitress uniform, their tops exposed, the cleavage between them thin, but undoubtedly cavernous in their depth. Her shapely hips looked like they were bursting out from her yellow skirt, a detail which couldn’t have been beyond the knowledge of the wardrobe team. She stood on a sitcom set, one familiar to everyone who had heard of the show Bad Mom, which had been dressed up as if it were a restaurant.

“What will it be then,” she said, putting her pen to her pad. “The tenderloin or the turkey?”

The man sitting in his seat only grabbed his fork, extended it off the table, and dropped it to the ground below. “It appears I dropped my utensil. Would you be a dear and grab it for me?”

The audience erupted with laughter.

John watched as his friend’s mom gave an actor’s sigh, looked over at her boss standing behind the till (the audience laughed when they saw the look of “you better do it if you don’t want me to write you up for this morning’s mistake” face), then she turned back and bent down to pick up the fork.

The studio audience gave in to their own apish hooting and hollering as she bent down.

Just before John could get a good look at the woman’s hanging cleavage, the channel changed to an image of an elephant washing its young with its trunk.

“That show should be banned,” Amy said. “Like it is back home.”

John looked back at his mom, and suddenly, out of nowhere, the thought had occurred to him. He saw his mom standing there, on that restaurant set, except it was now dressed up with oriental flavor, looking a lot like Uncle Tony’s establishment, and instead of Liam’s mom standing there, it was his own, both making a show of herself, not just for the restaurant patron, but for the entire viewing audience, in this country and others.

He looked at his mom’s chest as she breathed, and he imagined what it would look like if she bent down. In the clothing she had been wearing recently, what would be the difference? And given this change in wardrobe, where did she get off being upset with this sitcom?

And the thought that came next, the thought which had been John’s go-too when trying to stoke his own frustrations at his mom, was the thought of that thong peaking out of those tight yoga pants, their fabric necessarily running between the fat of her two cheeks.

She had crossed a line, right out of her own culture into the frowned-upon customs of another. Who was she to judge anyone over anything? Especially for failing in the duty to uphold tradition?

Little did John know, it was worse than that. Earlier today, after his studies at the kitchen table had been finished, and he had gone to the bathroom, she had stepped out of her fallen panties and took them downstairs in her fist, throwing them in the basement hamper.

That whole time she had been sitting on the couch with him, her smooth white legs extending from her tight, black skirt, she hadn’t been wearing any panties on underneath.


Dylan looked at the beautiful Asian woman sitting innocuously on her couch, her body looking like a dream. He looked at her from her own front lawn, standing in night-air, looking in through her wide living room window, staring at her pale throat and the tits in her red blouse, wondering what the color of her nipples were, if they matched the lips on her face. He shouldn’t have to be here, wondering in vain. Inside of that house somewhere was that camera he had set up, and it held the answer. It wasn’t in the bathroom when he had snuck inside earlier today. Nor had it been found by Amy, or, if it had, it at least wasn’t put into her bedroom. He had searched every inch of that room in order to find the little thing, turning up nothing except more underwear to rub his face through.

He looked at the gorgeous woman’s gorgeous body through the window, his forehead tight with frustration and angst. It had occurred to him just an hour earlier to check the laundry room in the basement. It was so obvious, but when he had come earlier and found that his camera was no longer in the bathroom where he had left it, hidden in the black and torn sock he taped it to the inside of, he had only assumed that Amy had found it. He was terrified, even after leaving the house, that he’d come home to the cops waiting for him there. It was only as the hours past that he began to entertain the more likely explanation, that the camera had moved with the rest of the innocuous-looking laundry, and though he didn’t know it to be true for sure, he knew it to be the most likely. The camera was in that house, and on it was stored the wonderful body of that beautiful woman. A body exposed, as it should be, not just to him, but to everybody he’d show the footage too. He had gained quite the reputation for his voyeurism, and Amy was going to help him bring his list of accomplishments to the next level. She had come all the way from China, an exotic mermaid, to do just that with her one in a million body and fish out of water presence. But now here she was, her presence alone obstructing that very goal with just as much efficacy.

“Give me that fucking chink ass,” he whispered to the night. “I worked so hard for it. The guys deserve it too.” He thought about it for a second, feeling himself getting emotional. “Even Tom.”

When Amy got up and shut off the light, John getting up with her, Dylan realized that sneaking in through John’s window wouldn’t be feasible any longer.

He moved feverishly through the night, his thoughts stuck rotating around the image of Amy smiling at him in her living room, her ass gigantic in those yoga pants. He wanted to be able to smile at her again. To do it knowing just what he had. Knowing just how much of her being belonged in his palm now.

When he got home, he saw his mom’s car in the driveway. And not wanting to talk to her, he scaled the back of the house and entered his room through the window. It wasn’t long before Dylan placed his feet down on his bed that he heard his mom’s moan from the down the hallway. His expression didn’t change. He took off his leather jacket, listening to the slapping of his mom’s voluptuous body and the “yes, yes, yes,” and though he could hear the masculine grunts and husky whispered requests, he couldn’t place which Tom, Dick, and Harry in town this could be (only hoping it wasn’t the one Tom he knew).

He shut off his light and put his head against his pillow. He grabbed the edge of the pillow and wrapped it over his ear. But as sounds still continued to come through, he imagined Amy, imagined her body, her ways, her voice, her smile, and he imagined that it was her flesh that was being slapped by his own pelvis, and her moans in the darkness. And using his mom’s voice in the night, abstracting it until it was nobody’s, he jerked off to this thought, trying to imagine Amy’s exposed nipples, whatever their color, and the undersides of her breasts and the unbroken line of her butt-crack pressed against him.

And like with most men who jerked off to Amy, especially under circumstances as loaded as the current moment, Dylan came. And as empty handed as that ejaculation was, at least in terms of any accompanying footage, it at least had one thing going for it. Because when Dylan finally came to Amy, he came into the cup of her very own bra, right in the very place her mysteriously-colored nipple had pressed against.

When John had entered Dylan’s house, he entered it with an astonishment. Tom’s house had set a high-bar. His own American home, while more modest, at least had the benefit of being clean.

John looked at the place where Dylan found shelter for most of his life, and he marked the shoes which seemed to be sprawled around the floor, well beyond the mat at the front door. The window in the kitchen was open, and a half-eaten pizza sat on the kitchen counter with a fly buzzing above it, one which was so large it was visible from the front door.

John didn’t say anything. He never did. It wasn’t in him to embarrass anyone. Saving face may not have been as important in America as it was in China, but his tendency to not step on anyone’s toes in this regard was something which still served him well in this country. He had no intention of changing this strategy. At least not yet.

“Come in,” Dylan said. “Welcome to the palace. It’s not exactly a dojo, but we do have hot sauce in the fridge.”

John came in. Dylan lead him to the kitchen. “What to eat?” he asked. “And what to feed a chinaman?”

As he looked inside, John looked out at the dining room, and he was shocked to see a pair of panties, a thong, hanging on the back of a chair. He squinted at it.

“You want chicken?” Dylan asked with his head still in the fridge. “We got KFC, I think it’s still good.”

Before John could say anything, the sound of hardwood flooring being disturbed could be heard down the hallway.

Dylan’s head came out of the fridge, and he looked in the direction of the kitchen doorway. “Oh shit,” he said.

John looked at his friend, noticing the worry beginning to form on his otherwise stressless face.

“I thought she was working.”

When Gianna came out, John’s jaw dropped near-immediately. She burst in through the doorway of the kitchen wearing a tank top, her chest poking out in front of her, as if it were there to clear the way. She seemed pleasantly surprised to see John standing there.

“Hey,” she said. “I know you! From Tony’s? Chinese Tony’s, right?”

The woman looked at John with a slight grin, her body seeming to lean on some invisible throughline which held in bare space vertically. She lay on the line at a horizontal tilt, her posture itself looking loud, as loud as her voice. Her facial features screamed with an Italian-ness, which would have seemed so stereotypical it would have appeared as racist, if it were not for the robust extent of her beauty.

“Get out of here, mom,” Dylan said almost immediately. “We’re trying to eat.”

Gianna looked at her son. John did too, his mouth hanging open. He then looked back at the woman.

John examined her body, trying and failing to be subtle, starting at her neck, going down, over her mountainous tits which protruded from her white tank-top, toward her waist, and when he saw her there, the only thing covering her pubic region being an upside-down triangle of red cloth, his usual reserved self became both impossibly jittery and incapable of speech.

“We have a whole bucket of KFC in the fridge still,” she said. Her loud and expressive voice would almost sound irritated if she wasn’t also smiling so wide. “Wait, move. Let me grab it.”

John watched as she passed him, following the waist of her red underwear, and when she grabbed the fridge handle, John could see it, his mouth hung open as he did, the thin line of a thong running through and between her gorgeous butt-cheeks, which jiggled a bit as she grabbed the fridge handle from her son.

She pushed Dylan out of the way gently. “Move over, honeypots.”

He furrowed his brow, looking down at her. She poked her head into the fridge, giving John a perfect look down at her ass.

Gianna whistled.

Dylan stood there with a subtle disgust on his face. It wasn’t the kind of disgust which came from an affront that was all new, it was the kind that grew in power with each affront adding to it. John could recognize this in his friend’s subtleties.

“I love KFC, but I don’t think it’ll be as good as Tony’s,” she said, her bare butt-cheeks aggressively swallowing the fabric of her thong. “But it’s the best we have right now.”

She turned around, the line of her thong becoming the upside-down triangle which covered her pubic area, and when she noticed John was looking down at her lower half, she smiled.

“Mouth-watering, isn’t it?” she said.

John looked up at her.

“Chicken, I mean.” She held up the bucket as if to amplify the point.

John watched her tight body as she stood by the microwave, waiting for it to heat up. He looked at his friend, barely believing that a mom could even stand so close to her son dressed (undressed) like this. To John, this might as well of defied the laws of physics.

Dylan just looked at the microwave, his face knotted up in a strange frustration. It was as if he was trying his best to ignore the unignorable. All the while, his mom whistled, almost as if she was trying to dig underneath Dylan’s skin as best she could, and reserve the right to say otherwise all the while.

The microwave dinged. Gianna’s body jerked, near-dramatically, at the ding, the butt cheeks which wrapped around the thong of her underwear jiggling from the motion. Dylan looked at the floor.

“Mom,” he said, his call dissipating unanswered within the kitchen’s malaise.

She opened the microwave door and took out the plate. “Ouch,” she said and put a finger to her mouth. She then pulled it out and wiped it on her shirt.

That’s when John noticed it, exactly what Dylan was hoping he wouldn’t.

“Mom,” Dylan said again, sounding more audibly annoyed.

It was underneath her shirt. Gianna wasn’t wearing a bra. The flesh of her breasts, no different than the flesh of her face, bled through. And what’s more, there seemed to be an added obstruction in front of the place where her nipples should have been. Something small and solid on each gigantic breast. John’s eyes went wide at the realization. They were rings of metal. Rings of metal clasped to her nipples. Her breasts were pierced. John looked over at his friend’s annoyed face, then back at his friend’s mom, not believing what he was seeing.

She looked over at her new houseguest, her mouth curled to a devilish smile. “Mouth-watering, isn’t it?” she said again. She motioned with the steaming plate and took a thorough whiff of it. “The chicken, I mean.”

“Mom,” Dylan said, now a third time.

“You don’t have to help us. We’re fine.” He said this all slow and deliberately, his voice straining from trying to swallow his growing annoyance.

“Well,” she said, her fingers pressed against the top of her chest. “I never said you two didn’t have it covered. I just thought like I could hear your stomachs growling all the way from my bedroom, and I thought I’d help speed up the whole process.” Her fingers lifted from her chest, and she made a circle in the air with them, like she were washing a car, when she said “help speed up.”

“Fine!” Dylan said, sharply. “That’s fine. You did that. Now… now that you’re done, can you leave us to hang out.”

“Of course,” she said, grinning. She turned and looked over at John, his spirit melting with her grinning gaze. “Pleasure making your acquaintance John. Hopefully my son invites you over to – hang out – a little more often.” She shot the shy immigrant boy a wink.


She shot her gaze over toward her son, her brow tightening as if wound up from the pressure of his outburst.

“What are you doing?” he asked in a shrill plead, both angry and confused.

She looked at her son innocently. She then shook her head, looking as if she was ready to deal with a misunderstanding. “I’m just feeding my son and his little friend here. I don’t see why you’re getting worked up.”

“Just go!” he said.

John’s throat began to feel tight.

“You’re going to boss me around my own house? Not just telling me what to wear, but telling me where I can wear it. I guess he’s right to do it,” she said, looking over at John, her eyes wide, with an air of sarcasm. “He pays the rent after all. Cleans, washes the clothes, takes care of his little brother without being asked every second hour. He’s an all-around renaissance man. Appreciate too.”

“Why are you like this?” he asked with equal parts indignation and impotent bafflement. “Why do you have to fuckin’ embarrass me like this?”

John looked at his friend with a terror in his eyes. Did he just use that word around his mom? Did he just use that word while talking directly to her?

“I don’t see what I’m doing wrong,” she said, her indignancy almost contagious. “I’m just making chicken for you guys.”

“What is wrong with you?” he said. “How many moms do you think greet their son’s friends without pants on? Don’t tell me you don’t understand why this is wrong. You’re not stupid. Why are you acting like you don’t know what I mean? You heard a male voice, and you came outside. That’s why you came. You have to make a spectacle of yourself every time.”

An anger was beginning to build in her face.

“What the hell happened to you to make you like this?”

All of a sudden the tension in her exploded into a wide-eyed aggression, coloring her face red, and she looked at her son with a gaze as sharp as daggers. And then her mouth curled up to match those fiery eyes. “If you don’t want me around, why don’t you just raise yourself then?” She almost threw the plate to the table. “I guess I’m just wasting my time working double-shifts for you. You apparently don’t need me to.” She rushed past, slowly grabbing John on his shoulder to guide him aside. “Sorry John.” She managed to push her anger aside for a second in order to say that and mean it. She looked back at him. “I’m sorry we had to meet each other like this.” She looked over at Dylan with a look of firm disgust for his behavior, just before rounding the corner and heading down the hallway, her near-naked ass disappearing with the rest of her.

Dylan stood there, his features of exasperation and regret. “Fucking whore,” he said to himself, and possibly to John. It didn’t sound like it was meant for his mother, but there was no way he didn’t know she heard it.

Her voice came down the hallway. “Just be thankful I don’t talk to you the way you talk to me, Dylan.” It was a threat. “I might not stay biting my tongue forever.”

John looked at his friend with absolute terror and shock, partly assuming the ground would open and swallow them up due to this break in the nature of mother-son relationships.

“What are you looking at?” Dylan asked. He looked up at John. He laughed, even through the weight of the moment. “I’ve never seen your eyes go this wide before.”

When they sat at Dylan’s computer desk in his disaster-zone of a room, John was further astonished when the desktop booted up and a picture of Evelyn, Tom’s mom, completely naked as captured by Dylan’s camera, sat there as plain as day.

He smiled to himself with pride. “I used to have my cousin’s ass as my desktop. But I thought Tom’s mom’s tits would be more fitting. I also wouldn’t have to do as much explaining if my mom caught me for it.”

It was amazing to John that not five minutes after his mom stood in that kitchen, her nipples almost visible to the two young men, Dylan could go to speaking about other naked women without missing a beat.

“Look at those tits,” he said. “No wonder Tom is smiling all the time. He was probably drinking milk from those things until just last week. I bet they pumped out wine instead of milk.” He watched for a few moments longer. Evelyn turned, unknowingly displaying her ass to the boys. Dylan’s lips curled in a faint disgust. “I’m surprise she doesn’t have a silver spoon jammed up that thing.”

He then turned in his chair and looked at John, his hands clasped together as if to represent curiosity.

“Say,” he started. “Which do you prefer? This video or the one with my cousin?”

John didn’t know how to respond. He felt embarrassed even being asked.

Dylan looked at him for a second, waiting for an answer. He then looked way. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll cut to the chase. I was pretty sure you were going to say Danielle, because word amongst the others is that you have a crush on her. Is that true?”

“I…” John said, unsure of how to answer.

Dylan put up his hand. “If you didn’t, you would have said no. So you do.”

The objection left John’s face and posture, but the awkwardness was still there in both.

“So if you like her then, the video of her in the bathroom must have meant a lot to you, didn’t it? I think Tom said he was the first to show you.”

John again began shaking his head, not in a way that implied “no,” but in a way that implied “I don’t know how to answer this.”

“Seeing a woman naked means a lot,” Dylan said. “Like when I saw this bitch’s tits.” He pointed at the screen. “I’ve known this woman since I was a kid. I used to look directly into her cleavage, not realizing the primo view I was getting, when she’d bend down to tie my shoe at birthday parties. Back then she only looked down at me because I was short. Now she does it because I’m in a lower tax bracket.” he pointed to the screen. “Being able to have this for myself now meant a lot to me.” He looked up at John, a smile in the corner of his mouth. “So my cousin probably meant just as much to you. Your first American crush and all.”

John didn’t say anything, though he wanted to nod. But he couldn’t really move. He was at the point where he knew he was beyond some sort of strange trap being sprung on him, but not quite at the point that he felt comfortable or secure in any action or statement. He waited for Dylan to continue.

“You like my cousin’s ass?” he asked. There was a troubling amount of gravity in the situation. “I mean, if you do, that’s awesome. I’m just asking because you know that you only got to see it because of me.” There was a silence. Dylan’s face began to go red. “Look, I’m telling you this because I have a giant favor to ask of you. Like a huge one, and I just want you to understand what I’ve done for you before you write me off.”

John could barely move. The fear was coming back.

“Okay John. Your mom is a beautiful woman.” He wasn’t looking John in the eyes. “Maybe even the most beautiful. At least of what I’ve seen. Leo agrees with me on this. I wouldn’t go… how do I say this… I wouldn’t go as far as saying that I like her as much as you like Danielle, just because I have a hunch that you have a deep and serious thing for her. But I do really, really,” He giggled to himself. “really… like your mom. Do you understand?”

John began to put two and two together, and as he listened to his friend talk, he feared that he would open one of those computer drawers, the ones John was sitting right next to, and pull out a camera, setting it in John’s hand and asking, pleading, instructing, him to put it in his mom’s bathroom. The hairs on John’s neck stood up from the mere hint of it alone, of betraying his mother in such a way. In a way that was irreversible and invasive and unknown. A way that was made common by the access it gave to others. A way that lowered her body to the dump heap that was Dylan’s house. Dylan’s life. Dylan’s desktop screen.

“Okay John, I’m just going to come clean with you. Don’t be mad.”

John’s stomach was ripe with butterfly fluttering.

“My camera is missing. Not missing entirely. I know where it is. But I don’t know where it is… inside of… where it is. Do you…” He sighed, unable to look John in his eyes. Suddenly, finding the courage, he looked up. “John, it’s in your house somewhere.”

John’s eyes narrowed.

Dylan smiled. “You’re starting to look extra like yourself today.” He patted John on the knee with the back of his hand. He seemed to be finding his second wind. “Like I said,” he started, with a rising jovialness. “Don’t be mad. But I put it somewhere, and then I came in through your window… and it’s not there anymore.” He looked up at John. “You understand?”

John understood, at least the content of what was being said. But the truth of what was being said, John, while not taking it for a lie or a joke, also didn’t take it seriously. As if Dylan was mistaken. As if he never placed that camera. As if he had never snuck in through John’s window. He was just wrong. And he wasn’t aware that he was wrong. But he was wrong.

“So, what I’m saying John, my good friend.” He patted John on his kneecap. “Can you, please… find that camera for me?”

John didn’t say anything.

“I think it’s in your laundry room. I already checked your mom’s room. It’s not there. Besides, I don’t think she found it. I used a sock to hide it. She must have thought it was laundry. I’m lucky she didn’t feel the camera inside. We both are.”

At that last sentence, John wondered if his mom’s recent anger had anything to do with that camera. But he knew that that couldn’t be true. It wouldn’t have been a slight anger if she had discovered that hiding, waiting for her in her very own bathroom. Something else had set her off. John looked at his friend as if her were an alien entity. Dylan smiled back at him.

“So…” he said, and then he took a deep breath. He exhaled. “Can you get that camera for me?”

“No,” John said, without thinking, his voice dry.

Dylan looked down into his own lap, rotating slightly in his chair. He looked up at the voluptuous image on his monitor.

John looked up and saw it too, and when he saw it, he felt his own hypocrisy at enjoying it intensely.

Tom’s mom’s breasts stood there, hanging off her oblivious chest, her pink nipples exposed to his sight. He thought of Danielle’s ass as she bent over to grab the scale. He thought of the waves of pleasure those had given him. And then he thought of his own mom’s body. Its similarities to those two and, more so, its peculiarities. Her pale skin and her unique Chinese aura. He thought of her black hair and her smile and the way that she walked and the various shapes her body would take depending on how she’d stand or sit, what angle he saw her from and in what clothes, and what level of tension or relaxation existed in her mind. And surprisingly, more than anything else, he thought of that thong running in between her two cheeks.

And he realized, inside his house, somewhere, laying there innocuously, was a video of her completely naked, unobstructed from her head to her toes, and all that that footage had to do to become immortal for anyone, including John himself to see, was it had to be retrieved.

John thought of this with an immense weight on his being, but before he could answer, before he could even formulate an answer, to himself or to Dylan, Dylan spoke: “Here,” he said. “I can tell that this is very personal to you. You feel like I’m asking you to give more than you’re willing to give. I’ve given a lot, but I did so without asking for anything in return.” He paused for a second. It was as if he were trying to find the exact word, a thing which was uncommon for Dylan. “Can I give you something more. Something very personal to me. Something which I haven’t shared with anyone?”

John didn’t answer, he just watched as Dylan began clicking through files on his computer.

When Dylan found it, the file labelled “whore,” he opened it up. A series of videos sat there. He scanned over them with his cursor, as if deciding from a well-explored collection, and then he said “this one,” and he double clicked on one of the videos.

The video opened, and to John’s surprise, Gianna sat there. It took a few seconds for John to realize that she was drunk.

“She’s drunk,” Dylan said. “She came home drunk. She drinks a lot actually.”

The camera seemed to be adjusting itself. But when it found its placement, a pair of hands pulled away. They were John’s. He looked down at the camera. Then he turned and looked at his mom.

She lay there, her gigantic breasts almost bursting out of the V-line of her black dress, her juicy, bronzed thigh sticking out from its open hem.

“Imagine you had Danielle like this,” he suggested. And then his voice lowered to a hush. “We shouldn’t be so loud. She’s still in her room.”

The hush of Dylan’s voice sent a tingle through John’s spine.

“She comes home from the bar like this,” Dylan whispered. “Like completely blacked out. She does it every few weeks. Like nothing bad could ever happen to her.”

The Dylan in the video approaches his mom. And then he grabs the breast of her dress. He pulls it down.

Her giant tits fell out and onto her chest. John looked on, amazed, looking directly at the tits he had just seen in the kitchen, now hanging out in the open on screen.

“You’ll never know how good this feels, John. To be able to do this to someone.”

Her other breast came out, exposing her dark nipple, both of them pierced with a steel ring running through them, which was then covered over by Dylan’s squeezing hand.

“The fact that she’s my mom… it doesn’t matter,” Dylan said. “A body’s a body. If she’s going to treat herself that way… then what does she expect?” He looked over his shoulder, toward the direction of his mom’s room, as if chastising her to an onlooker.

The Dylan in the video, his face possessed with an eager monomania, pushed her torso forward, her black hair spilling over her thighs, and he began to unzip the back of her dress.

In not long, her tight-fitting dress was pulled from her flesh. John sat there, his mouth drying out as it hung open, watching the flesh of her body bear itself to him with each moment the fabric of her dress was pulled down her sleeping body. And then John spotted the top of it, her pubic region, its surface decorated with a perfectly shaved landing strip, the likes of which extended down below the dropping fabric. And when the fabric dropped further, he could see black landing strip end right where Gianna’s pussy lips, big and thick, began. A ring had been punched through that as well. John couldn’t believe that a respectable adult woman, a mother of multiple children, could pierce herself as if she were a common street whore. This really was a strange country. Every opened door, revealed secret, and unzipped dress proved it.

She laid there naked, defenseless. Dylan was soon naked too, at least from the waist down. Though he was far from defenseless now. His cock throbbed as he kneeled next to his mother’s naked body on the couch.

“Ughh,” he panted in the present. “You have no idea how good it feels. Just seeing her come home like that and punishing her for it.”

Punishing her? For what, John thought.

Video Dylan suddenly placed his hand on the inside of his mom’s thigh. “Oh, mommy!” he said in a husky whisper, with a cadence which almost sounded French Canadian. He put both his palms on her inner-thighs, spreading them apart. Then he suddenly leaned in. His eyes were squinting. It couldn’t be made out on camera just yet, but he had spotted something, something which caught his attention quickly, even as the rest of her stood there, ready for his machinations.

He touched her pussy lips. He opened them up.

It was visible now.

Cum dripped from within, down her, thigh, falling to the couch cushion below.

Video Dylan just looked down at it, the aggressive stance in his body disappearing. He held the same expressionless look that somehow spoke with more volume than a mask of kabuki origin. Even the Dylan of the present said nothing, not even bothering to explain the scene or what it meant. After a few more silent moments, video Dylan’s hand moved against his mother’s thigh. He kept moving it, clearly enjoying the sensation of her skin against his palm.

“Oh,” he said, his lips audibly curled in disgust. “You’re going to get it, you complete slut.”

Dylan’s cock pressed into his mom’s tits lengthwise, obscuring her nipple. Then he pulled back and pressed his balls against it.

“You want to live like a slut, I’m going to treat you like a slut.”

Dylan interrupted his video self, as if not wanting to be heard. “I’ve licked and rubbed my dick and balls on every part of her. Look.” He clicked thirty minutes into the video. It jump-cut to him straddling her head, his feet planted firmly on the couch cushions, as he rubbed her balls against her gorgeous Italian face. John’s imagination could never have conjured an image like this, and was so lacking in its ability to conceive it, that he almost had trouble registering it as it happened right before his eyes. He saw the determined look in video Dylan’s face, now polluted with a rising bitterness and resentment, as the flesh of his most private area rubbed itself against the bone structure of his mom’s most public self. This was the woman who raised and took care of him, and not only did he feel alright yelling and screaming at her, as John was shocked to witness today, but he somehow even found it within him to desecrate her face with the physical manifestation of his vulgarity.

He then clicked on another part.

“She gets wet too. It’s like she’s so used to it at this time of night, she can’t help herself.”

He sat beside her in the video, sucking on her breast, as he fingers her with two fingers. As the video went on, with him clicking back and forth between his favorite moments, a pattern emerged to John where the redness of Dylan’s face, and its single-minded obsessiveness, along with its growing need for the cleansing fire of punishment, scrubbing Giana’s dirty flesh bare, seemed to grow with each passing minute.

“It’s way better than jerking off,” Dylan said in a husky voice which seemed to get huskier with his raising arousal. “She just has so much body to use. And I don’t see why not. You seen how she dresses. What differences is there between me doing this and everyone else doing it? If anything, I’m her son. I’m the only one she owes anything.”

His video version licked the side of his mom’s face as he gripped and squeezed her breast. Her eyes were clasped tightly shut.

Dylan looked John in the face with his expanding pupils. Then he looked down at the small stiffy in John’s jeans. He nodded at it and seemed to be about to say something. And then he shook his head as if deciding otherwise.

John knew what that was. That Dylan was about to give him permission to jerk off, and the only reason why he thought against it was because he wanted John right where he was in just this moment. Horny and without closure.

John would have naturally tried to avoid this, had he not been enjoying it so much himself.

The only thing he did was the one thing he did whenever confronted with something strange in this new land. He told himself, with a cosmic resignation, this is America.

In Rome, John heard that you were supposed to do as the Romans do. Now he was in America. What did that mean for him?

He knew what that meant for Gianna, and he watched it as her son, after getting a heavy fill of all the shape and softness her body had to offer, bust nut after copious nut on her face and chest.

“I just thought I’d cum on her before Tom gets his chance.”

John, astonished and disturbed by the disrespect and sacrilege of it all, still somehow couldn’t help but imagine the American flag being planted on the moon.

Dylan’s body tensed and spasmed, and another volley of cum found itself falling against his mom’s face.

Explorers from England landing on Plymouth Rock.

Gianna twitched.

For a second, John thought she looked like his mom. It was only a fleeting impression, one which filled him with a strange horror.

Horror and a little bit of something more than that.


Amy saw him come in with his mother, and at seeing him there, walking with a grin on his face, hers soured.

Gianna and Dylan both came to her, somehow lowering their conspicuous volume, stopping their argument over parking in its tracks, as if there were never an argument at all. Dylan at seeing Amy standing there, and not his friend John, smiled all the wider. Gianna smiled over her cavernous and exposed cleavage, a style of dress, her body hugged by shape-forming black, that would be scandalous even in this country. Yet, Amy pondered, she smiled with a pride of someone who possessed self-respect.

“For two?” Amy asked, trying to fake a smile.

“Yes,” Gianna said, smiling back in earnest. “Just a little make-up dinner for me and my boy.”

After guiding the two to their table, Dylan watched her butt as she walked away.

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she Dyl?” Gianna asked as she looked over the menu.

“Yeah,” he said, still glaring at her. “She’s not bad.”

Tony looked at his sister, seeing the bitter look on her face. He wiped his hands on his cloth and turned and went back into the kitchen.

Amy stood there at the front, thinking about that terrible kid her son apparently called a friend. She thought about that irritating grin as he ravaged her underwear. She adjusted herself out of frustration, trying not to let the fact that her privacy was violated, and that the boy who did it sat grinningg in her family restaurant, upset her.

She looked over again, and saw his mom’s hand on his wrist, her face alive with wide-eyed jovialness as she spoke, her seeming to be perpetually open. Amy looked down at the woman’s chest, her cleavage just hung out there shamelessly in front of her son. Amy couldn’t be surprised he turned out the way he did.

Tony kept coming from the back to “check on the floor,” and consistently stole glances over at the chesty white woman. Gianna noticed, and she smiled at the restaurant owner. He looked down at the ground, and then over at his wife, who was already glaring at him. He turned around, still wiping his hands nervously, and disappeared into the back.

Gianna played with her hair. Amy looked away and shook her head.

Amy went out into the back for break. Frank lay there in his usual spot, but his eyes were shut tight with sleep. So Amy stood there, smoking alone. The make-shift knot of her bra strap pinched into her spine. As for her panties, the only path available to her was to just not wear any. She didn’t think it would make her feel as naked as she currently did. Dwelling on it, and the humiliation it caused her, she heard the back door open and she dropped her cigarette.

She turned to look, expecting to see her brother. Instead she saw Gianna standing there.

“Ooh,” Gianna said, reaching into her purse. “Backdoor sisters.” She said it with an enthusiastic uptick, her voice, if made physical, seemed to suck up all space around it, like a balloon inflating, pushing aside the raining confetti.

Amy watched her as she pulled out cigarettes.

“Do you smoke?” Gianna asked.

Amy looked at the ground.

Gianna looked down and saw the still-lit cigarette on the pavement. “Well,” she said, pointing at with the hand that held the pack. “Much help it’ll do you down there, hey?”

She opened up her pack and pulled out two cigarettes, giving one to Amy.

She lit her own cigarette first, then she invited Amy to lean in to light her own. “Closer, sweetheart.” As Amy stood there, watching the tip of her cigarette grow orange, she looked down beneath it, seeing Gianna’s giant unignorable breasts as the sight’s unignorable backdrop.

Some sparks fell down onto Gianna’s cleavage. She wiped it away with the heel of her hand.

They both smoked silently for a bit, and then Gianna spoke after another exhalation. “So it’s China then. That’s where you…” she let her two fingers move back and forth as if to signal everyone in Amy’s circle.

Amy looked at the woman. She nodded her head. “Yes. We from China.”

Gianna nodded. “Taiwan China or Hong Kong. Or from China China?”

“From China. The country China.”

“Okay, okay,” she said, nodding enthusiastically as she took another drag. “How are you liking America so far, sweetheart?”

“It’s good,” Amy said. “I like it.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Gianna said. “I wouldn’t know any better. But I always thought it a good place to live. How are the people treating you? I guess that’s what matters most, right?”

“Very good. Very good. I think Americans are very nice.” Amy adjusted herself. “Not as respectful, kind of thing.”

“Oh no.”

“But very nice. Like… uhh. Like warm. Very… um. Everyone smile here. And want to hear about China and life in China.”

“That’s good,” Gianna said. She let her shoulders dance back and forth and then nudged Amy in her side. “Woman of the hour.” She gave Amy a wink. Her left elbow resting on the back of her right wrist as she took in more drags. She looked Amy in her eyes with an eager enthusiasm all the while. She exhaled smoke into the air like she was eager to get rid of it. “I think a lot of people like asking questions because most Americans don’t know anything about the rest of the world. I know I don’t. So…” she shooed away a bug. “So when they see you, and you look so nice with your nice smile, they feel like they can ask you. You know what I mean? They go ‘she don’t bite. She’ll tell us.’”

Amy was taken aback by the compliment.

Gianna stepped back and looked at Amy up and down. “You know,” she started, her hand shooting toward Amy’s arm, as if to keep her in place to get a better look at her. “Your clothing fits your form gorgeously. Wow. You’re like a dream come true.”

“Thank you,” Amy said and craned her neck in a subtle bow. She then came up from the bow looking at Gianna’s full breasts. “Same with you.”

“Your man must be very happy with you,” Gianna said.

Amy was surprised by her conversation partner’s forward nature. She shook her head. “Uh, no,” she said. She looked down. “My husband is gone. Passed.”

“Oh, I apologize if I’m talking to much. I do that a lot to people.” She smiled and did that little dance with her shoulders again. “I’m sure you figured out already. Don’t worry, just tell me if my guinea gabbing’s getting on your nerves. I won’t be offended. I’m a big girl.” She winked again.

Amy shook her head agreeably. “No. No. You not talk too much.”

“How’s dating going?”

Amy was further taken aback. “Dating?”

“You know what dating is, right?”

Amy nodded her head once.

“I’m just saying – not to pry or anything. It’s your life – but I think you’d be able to get someone like that.” She snapped her fingers. She looked Amy up and down again, from the heels of her shoes all the way up her voluptuous frame, to the stated look on her still-beautiful face. She gave a knowing giggle to herself. “Yeah,” she said. “You’d clean house. I know I do, and I’m only about as exotic as New Jersey wop. You’re…” she nodded her head, took a drag, and blew out the smoke. “…you’re something else aright.”

When Tony saw the two women coming in together, both smelling like smoke, Gianna parting from Amy with a comforting pat on her forearms - “Talk to you again, doll,” she said.” – his wife, watching him in turn, could see the worry in his face. His sister looked up at him, and he swallowed it, smiled at her, and turned back to one of his waitresses to talk.

“Nice lady, that… um…. Your friend there’s mom. What’s his name?”


“Yeah,” Gianna said, sitting back down and putting the cloth napkin back in her lap. “She seemed like such a sweetheart. I was just talking to her and she just nodded her head the whole time. A really sweet girl. Do you know if she’s getting out much?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Dylan said, looking over at her ass as she guided another couple to their table.

“Maybe I should take her out somewhere. You think she’d like that.”

Dylan turned his head slightly at the suggestion. His eyes filled with a lively spark at hearing it. He looked back at the pretty Asian lady, his friend’s mom, the focal point of his hidden camera, his next victim. She smiled as she settled the couple at their seats.

“Yeah,” he said. “As a matter of fact, I think you should.”

Amy felt her hand being grabbed by soft fingers. She looked down and felt paper being pressed into her palm. She looked up and saw Gianna’s face, her son standing behind her. Below that eager and smiling face hung that giant unbroken line of cleavage. It was still in a state of leftover motion, and they moved back and forth slightly below Gianna’s grin.

“Here,” she said. “For being such a fun conversation.” She winked at Amy, and then her and her son – her son’s gaze trailing, stuck on Amy, as he turned to leave – walked out of the restaurant.

Amy looked down in her hands. Sitting there, folded in half was Andrew Jackson’s face looking back up at her. $20 dollars.

Underneath that proud American face was a message scrawled in pen.

She stretched the bill out.

“In case you want a friend to party with.” And below it was a phone number.

Amy couldn’t help herself.

She smiled.


Leo had seen John’s mom and Dylan’s mom sitting across from each other at the coffee shop. Through Leo, Liam found out about it. And Liam told John.

John paced back and forth in his room, his stomach chewing him alive from the inside out, terrified wondering who would find out next. He wondered for how long this had been going on, and how many others had witnessed it as a consequence. He knew something was strange with how she no longer seemed to find the time to be with him. Not even to stand there, stooped above his shoulder like a vulture, pecking at the pages of his homework with an aggressive finger (she still somehow found it in herself to remember to demand that he study though, just as much as he found it within himself, as much as this surprised him, to not).

Not only did he pace through a thick cloud of his own fear, but the air of his bedroom was muggy with his anger as well. She had told him that hanging out with Dylan was off the table. She had made it clear to him she thought he was a bad influence. She made it clear that she knew – though she failed to vocalize how – that there was just something… off... about him.

All of this lecturing. All of this worrying. All of these demands. And now here she was, sitting out in that living room, flipping through channels, very likely wearing a thong beneath her clothes, after just coming back from an afternoon coffee with the very mom of the kid she warned so sternly against. John thought of all the various male bodies which clung to and against Gianna’s olive-toned flesh. He remembered her nipples and the skin of her legs and butt-cheeks. The way her one foot rested on the heel of the other, with a natural and unthinking seduction, as she waited for the microwave to cook chicken. More than that, he remembered the curve in her body as Dylan pulled her into a preferred position. Her remembered the piercings on her body’s most private and sacred places. He remembered the easy give her vagina gave at the furious digital probing of her son. He remembered the ease at which her dress came off, and the slobber of her drunken face. He remembered her opened holes, copiously leaking cum all over her own couch cushions and sheets. And he remembered her son’s adjudication, that she deserved it after all.

John stopped pacing. He had heard something. It was a laugh. His mom was laughing in the living room. But not her usual reserved laugh. It was a deep, hard belly laugh. John listened harder. He could hear the television in the back.

“Sheriff Reinhart, I apologize for uh… dropping in on you like this.”

A studio audience laughed. There was a silence. The audience laughed more, John’s mom along with them, reacting to some sort of visual gag that John had no grasp of.

“Um,” the show’s buxom protagonist started. “Is that a gun in your pants sheriff?”

“Umm, yyesssss?” he said in the tone of a nervous excuse.

The studio audience again gave into a jubilee of both comical and naughty nature. John’s mom was right there with them.

He remembered the scowl on her face the last time she had stumbled onto that show.

John gritted his teeth.

It’s that woman, he thought. That terrible, terrible… he was about to think it. Think that word her son used against her so carelessly. He stopped himself.

He then imagined her there, laying naked. He couldn’t believe he had seen it. There wasn’t an inch of her body that Dylan hadn’t exposed to John in that video. He had turned his mom’s entire sleeping body, that which she carried about with her in dresses and skirts and skin-tight leopard skin suits, into an object for viewing. And he showed John, of all people, that body. He did it all with a casual grin, as if it was just as right as rain.

John couldn’t help it. When he thought of Gianna, Dylan’s mom, he couldn’t help but think of the body of his own mother. That was the thing with sex and sexual imagery, it only begot more of itself, like a snowball rolling down a hill occasionally dragging an entire avalanche with it.

He heard Liam’s mom on TV: “Gynecologist? Maybe it is time I go see one. Last time I had an appointment with one, security busted in and took him away.”

“Huh, what did he do?”

“Well,” she said, leaving enough space to set up tension for the punchline. “Another one came in after and asked me why my face was so white. Turns out the first guy wasn’t a gyno at all. He was an escapee from the psych ward.”

The audience erupted again. Amy was silent, probably trying to understand what the unfamiliar English words meant.

“The psych ward?” one of the characters asked, shocked.

“Yeah,” Liam’s mom said. “He was there for sex addiction.”

More laughter. It died down.

“He said I was the healthiest patient he’s had in years.”

John understood now, for the first time in his life, why the government back home had banned this show. Why they had banned a lot of things. For the first and only time in his life, he understood, and bizarrely sympathized with, the censors.

As his mom lay there, her presence there driving him mad with the cloud of hypocrisy that it invisibly expelled, the every inch of her exposed flesh expelling it through her pores, he thought about Evelyn, Tom’s mom, and her pretentious public-facing image. Then he imagined her as she was, behind the shelter of her bathroom door, sitting on that toilet, her giant breasts hanging, spraying piss into the bowl.

Behind closed doors, John thought. That’s who we really all are. It’s who we are behind closed doors. When nobody is watching.

He thought of his mom in the bathroom. He tried to imagine what her body looked like. And he knew that somewhere in his house, just a short search away, was the complete and unobstructed knowledge of it.

“It might be in the laundry room,” Dylan had said.

That wasn’t very far away from where John stood. Even in a big American home. It wouldn’t take much at all to get there. Yet he stood still.

He thought about the element of time, about the possibility of trying to find the camera later. But when he did, he entertained the possibility that it was in line to be washed, or, worse, that it had been washed already, and that its footage, and the possibility of further footage, was washed from existence along with it. His mom’s buxom body in all its pale vulnerability obliterated by circumstances, and by his own sloth.

He remembered being younger, his mom lecturing him about the damage done by a lost opportunity. “Think about what you lose when the opportunity missed was small. When the opportunity is big, the loss is big with it.”

Her body was the same back then, but her clothing showed off almost none of it. That version of her was long lost.

John looked at his door, hearing his mom’s voice in the living room laughing. He moved towards it, feeling his confidence rise as he took his first steps. His mom’s laughter rose with it. He grabbed the doorknob.

He turned his wrist slightly.

Just as he did, the phone rang.

John stopped. His wrist slowly gave, letting the knob fall, inch by inch, back into resting position.

“His mom answered the phone, first in Mandarin, then in English.”

Her R’s almost sound like R’s, John thought. He sat back down on his bed.

Gianna pulled up outside a quiet suburban home in her convertible. Its top was pulled up. On the radio, Girls Just Want to Have Fun by Cindy Lauper played. She looked at herself in the sun visor mirror. She fixed her hair and made duck lips at herself to examine her lips. Then she tilted the mirror to face her breasts. She adjusted them in her bra and low-cut dress, pulling on its hem, jiggling her breasts into proper place. She looked at them for a moment, tilting her head. Then she slapped the visor back up against the roof of the car.

She looked at the door of the house, wanting to honk, and then thinking better of it, concerned that it would be deemed offensive. Not long after, the door of the house opened. Amy came out onto the stoup.

She looked at her friend, smiled at her with her sweet smile. Below, her body was wrapped in a tight red dress, which accentuated her every curve. The one that Gianna had picked out for her.

“She’s a killer,” Gianna said quietly to herself. “She’s going to make somebody happy tonight.”

Amy walked to the car. She had trouble concealing her giddiness as she did.

“Hop in, pretty lady,” said Gianna.

Amy got into the passenger seat and only said “hi” nervously and then looked ahead.

As they both drove off, a figure stood at the window of the house.

John looked out at the empty street where his mom and Dylan’s mom just sat a moment ago.

The various teases and threats of his friends toward Dylan regarding his mom all flashed in John’s mind at once. They filled him with an acute anxiety, a strange collage of half-finished images, each flashing with the sound of a pant or feminine moan. He imagined himself, Dylan’s partner in that humiliation. He imagined his mom at its focal point. Pale skin, in a shape like that half-seen in a dream, flashed for a split second, underscored by a moan, as a light strobed in and out of existence.

If only Dylan could see him here now. He’d know just how wide John’s eyes could go.


Amy stumbled as she moved. The world around her shuffled past like a blur. She couldn’t remember herself ever being this drunk before. Her dressed pulling tightly against her buzzing flesh almost felt soothing. She was surprised she had even gotten to this point. Gianna kept putting drinks in front of her, paying for most of them. Amy had only assumed she was in good hands. She trusted her friend.

She saw her guardian ahead of her. A rough hand came down against Gianna’s ass, which was cupped in a black which shimmered with whatever light reflected off its glossy surface. Gianna turned, her face fiery with a drunk and stumbling rage. But when she saw the face of her attacker, and focused long enough was stumbling in place to recognize who he was, her expression softened. She tilted back on the weight of one foot with a smile, her giant breasts swaying in their low-cut cradle like luscious fruits in a basket as she did.

“How you doing, beautiful?” the man said, and grabbed her around her waist. He pulled her close and began to hug her tightly. “You’ve been too busy with the rest of the town for a round 2?”

She pressed her palms against his shoulders and pushed back. “Fuck you,” she said.

“I’m just kidding. I’m just kidding,” he said, and he pulled her close again.

A look of warmth overcame Gianna’s face. It was as if some secret switch was flipped inside of her. She rested her chin on the man’s shoulders.

As she did, another man passing squeezed her on her butt as she went.

She turned, only seeing an indistinct face as it past.

“One of your admirers,” the man holding her said. He didn’t seem to be bothered by the wandering hand of another man on Gianna whatsoever.

Amy watched all this, registering it through a hazy blur.

Suddenly she felt a hand and arm against her waist.

“Hello,” said a man, his face, though looking directly into her own, was indistinct and blurry. “You a friend of Gianna’s?”

Amy looked at the man, not even connecting that it was him who had put that pressure against her waist, and who still was. She looked over at Gianna, who had her face pointed upward, her eyes closed as a man kissed her neck.

“Friend,” Amy mouthed to herself.

She looked back at the man. She could make out nothing about him except for his white skin, and for a big smile which stretched from ear to ear.

She looked back at Gianna. The man grabbed her dress and began to pull it down.

Suddenly, from underneath the soles of Amy’s feet, a familiar feeling began to bubble up toward his conscious awareness. The corners of her mouth fell downward, and her forehead became a matrix of horizontal creases.

“No,” she mouthed to herself.

“So,” the man said, still smiling, somehow even wider. “What kind of Asian are you?” His grasp around her waist got tighter.

“No,” she said.


“No!” she said, and she pushed away.

“Whoah, whoa. What are you-“

“No!” Amy demanded. She pushed hard against the man. When she felt him tug at her in the opposite direction. She pulled her hands back and then thrust them forward at him. He fell backwards.

“What the fuck- what’s wrong with you?”

Gianna heard the commotion. She looked over to see Amy standing there, three men standing across from her, one leaned against a table, trying to restabilize himself.

“She’s getting ‘Nam flashbacks,” one of the men said.

“She love you short time, I guess,” said the other.

Gianna looked at the sight, her expression suddenly regaining distinction through concern. “Let go,” she said to her male friend.

He mumbled and continued kissing her throat.

“Let go,” she said and pushed him away.

“The fuck.”

She went towards Amy, grabbing her by her elbow.

When Amy felt Gianna’s soft hands on her arm, she recoiled immediately. She looked up at Gianna, feeling a sense of disgust bubble up in her stomach, especially as Gianna’s breasts hung below her look of concern.

Gianna could sense the reaction from Amy and knew its implications. But the sting of its didn’t last long, none of it meaning anything to her on a good day, now meaning less under the current circumstances.

“Amy, let’s go.”

She grabbed the pretty, vulnerable woman as if she was hers to protect, and she began to guide her toward the door of the bar.

“Oh,” one of the guys said. “Not only does she screw every guy in town, she has to go home with Mrs. Swan here as well.”

The man who had been kissing Gianna had his hand on the back of his neck in exasperation. “Does she ever let anybody get a second lay?”


John sat on his couch, looking down at the coffee table.

On it sat a raggedy sock with a little hole in it. In the hole, John could see a lens.

His stomach was alive with tickling butterflies.

It was here.

In this little innocuous ball of plastic and miniscule circuit boards, a goldmine sat, waiting for its yellow goods to be extracted.

John rested his chin on his overlapping knuckles. His stomach and thighs tingled. It was amazing to have so much emotion focused on something that was so physically small. It was as if the spirit of his mom’s naked voluptuousness, or at least the vague notion he entertained of it in his head, animated itself within that ball. So even while its shape wasn’t there, at least not to the naked eye, its spiritual essence was.

John sighed.

He imagined Dylan sitting at his desk, looking at the image with maximum satisfaction and pleasure. With all the same eagerness that he viewed Tom’s mom. He then imagined the Tom’s basement, with all the guys there, each tugging on themselves as they looked up at his sacred mother’s naked body. Leon most of all, his big, throbbing cock slapping against the flesh of his thigh.

John pressed his face into his hands.

“What am I supposed to do?” he asked himself in Mandarin.

Before he could question himself further, he heard a horrible screech. He turned around on the couch and split open his blinds with his index and middle finger.

A convertible sat there in the night at an angle, smoke rising from its overused breaks, its black top up, covering its contents.

The passenger door opened up. John saw his mom get out. She walked a few steps forward. Her purse perilously hanging from her wrist.

She didn’t even close the door, but Gianna stepped on the gas, its motion closing the door instead, and she ran up the neighbor’s yard a few feet and smacked into their mailbox.

Without stopping she stabilized the car and got it back on the road, pulling off down the street in a fading squeal.

John sat there on edge, his jaw hanging open.

His mom had just reached the bottom step of the stoup when the sound of the squealing car died down.

John ran over to the door and opened it.

His mom looked up at him.

She squinted.

Then she began to move past him.

Her hip brushed into his side as she went, her breasts pushed rubbed against his arm.

She began to stumble. John’s hand gripped her by her hip to keep her up.

She stopped. She turned to look and she saw a male face looking back at her. Its mouth curled into a look of horror and concern.

John guided her toward her bedroom, assuming that that’s where she’d want to go, but as he did, smelling the liquor which billowed off her dress all the while (the smell alone filling him with terrible thoughts of what might have happened tonight), she seemed to spot the couch, and, not having the wherewithal to wait in expectance of more, she shot toward it, loosing herself from John’s grip.

When she fell to the couch, her entire body jiggled within her dress. John saw the jiggle, and it were as if its vibration ran through the stillness of his stomach, driving him to an overpowering nervousness.

John looked down at the camera in the sock. Then up at his mom.

She breathed in and out, her giant breasts heaving. Her thighs extended out of the skirt of her dress. Her calves were soft and shapely as she pushed her feet (her shoes were apparently missing), against the leg of the coffee table.

Her head was resting against the backrest of the couch in a way that looked painful for her neck.

John went to grab her by her legs to rotate her in an attempt to lift him onto the couch, but at feeling his hands, she jerked.

John grabbed her legs, even as she kicked against him, and he lifted them up, feeling their softness in his hands, and put them onto the couch.

She kicked about more, and when she did, her dress hiked up closer and closer to her waist.

Her foot came up, almost kicking John in his face, and he grabbed it.

And when he did, feeling her toes against the palm of his hand, he noticed something.

He looked up at her thighs. Following them upward, he realized he was seeing more of them than he ever had before. He followed them up to her hem of her dress, and then he noticed something.

Something black and furry peeked out at him.

He sat there for a second, on the edge of the couch with his mom’s heels in his hands.

The black something stared back at him.

He began to lean forward to get a closer look at it.

When he got so close, there was no denying what he was seeing, he began to blink, as if trying to clear out his eyes. But the more he blinked, the more clear it became.

He grabbed the hem of his mom’s dress. He pulled up slowly.

He looked down at his mom’s unguarded bush. As black and thick as the hair on her head.

The camera sat in its sock on the table as the two of them sat before it on the couch.

He reached out his hand slowly.

He touched it.

His hand bristled with its soft hairs, his palm was filled with it.

He looked lower. He took his hand back, letting it slide down the bush. His fingers found something. An opening. He could feel it. He felt it up and down. He exhaled.

He pushed his fingers inside.

His mom lay there, her eyes shut completely.

She breathed. Her breasts heaved.

Seeing her there, her eyes clamped tightly in peaceful sleep, he could see Gianna in the same state almost as clearly.

His constantly wavering and decreasing anxiety came back up to its zenith, the image of his mom there being in complete sync, a recurrence of history, with that which he saw of Gianna in that video. He couldn’t take a breath without checking. But he was terrified of what he’d find.

He grabbed her pussy lips and inserted his thumbs inside. He leaned down, his forehead rife with physical signs of worry.

He spread his mom’s pussy.

When it looked back at him, open, exposed, pink, and most importantly of all, dry, John felt a sudden weight fall from his chest. He could breath again.

He remembered the leaking cum spilling from Gianna. His mom’s pussy looked back at him, untainted.

He felt a moment of happiness, a moment of worry unfounded. Then he looked up at his mom’s face. She lay there, dumb, eyes shut, mouth hanging open ridiculously, as her breasts heaved up and down as she breathed.

The teeth in John’s mouth began to grind. He adjusted himself on the couch. His mom looked up at him without any awareness, conscientiousness, or agency. She was just an empty husk, a beauty without spirit. A body without defense. A Chinese woman set loose in America. A target for American men.

The lines in John’s forehead began to come back. But this time, it was anger, not fear, which began to form them.

He got up, causing his mom’s legs to fall to the couch cushions.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.

The face of his camera captured up close as his index and middle finger pushed into the open orifice of her pussy.

He then placed the phone down on the table, leaning it against the hidden sock cam.

His mom lay perfectly within its frame. He sat down next to her.

He leaned down and grabbed the top of her dress. He pulled it down.

The flesh of her breasts expanding and expanding it surface area until he could feel something at his finger tips. He took a breath. He pulled downward.

Two dark-red nipples appeared to him just as quickly as they had appeared to the lens of his camera.

He pulled more until the undersides of his mom’s breasts could be seen. He pulled the dress down to her navel. He grabbed his mom’s breasts. He shook them. They jiggled like giant mountain of gelatin. Her cupped them so that they pushed up toward his face. He leaned down.

He took her nipple in his mouth. He tasted the sweat of his mom’s nipple.

He sucked and probed it with his tongue. Then he took his mouth off of it, looking down at it, and then he began to lick the rest of her breasts, enjoying its texture and taste.

Not long after, her body was pulled up into the air as John pulled her dress off of her going toward her bottom.

He could see the size of her ass for a second before she fell back down to the couch.

He turned her over, and her unbroken and large butt-crack stared back at him. His hands came down and rested on his thighs. He just sat there looking at it for a moment. Then he got back to work.

He grabbed each butt-cheek, being shocked by how large, round and heavy they were. He pulled them apart.

Inside, staring back at him, was his mom’s butthole.

His next exhaled breath shook as it came out. He reached over for his phone and began to film her butthole, and the inside of her butt-cheeks in general. Then he set the phone back down.

He stripped his pants off and he took his cock, harder than it had ever been in his entire life, and he pressed it between his mom’s butt-cheeks, feeling its small size being eaten up by the eternity of endless flesh.

The camera captured as John’s open-mouthed, singular, monomaniacal, ecstatic face came down over his mom’s shut-eyed, sleeping, peaceful, serene face, and he began to kiss it. All the while, he rubbed his dick in between his mom’s cheeks. The phat of her lower half gave against John’s thrusting bones.

The phone sat just as still, just as objective and unforgetting, as John lowered his body to his mom’s face, pressing his balls against her shut eyes. He then gyrated in place, rubbing them all over her nose, lips, chin, cheeks, and forehead. His held his phone in his hands, filming her face and all its nuances, giving to the weight and drag of his cock and balls.

His face and body was red and getting redder, even as his mom’s remained a pure white. When he spoke it was always in harsh, husky and repetitive whispers, and always in Mandarin. His mom said nothing, her body only jostling about with each motion. Occasionally she would be flipped around by John’s deliberate force, either for his own pleasure, or to make her more appetising for the camera.

“First it was a thong,” John repeated to himself. “And now she wears nothing at all.” The tone was as scathing as it was celebratory.

“You need to be punished,” he said, presenting her ass to the camera. He gave it a rough smack. Its sound reverberated throughout the house. “A nice punishment.”

John remembered his fantasies in China, his dreams of coming to this country and finding a body just like this one for himself to touch, grope, and rub against.

He had found that now. It had always been with him.

Amy lay there peacefully, oblivious to the world. A drop of something thick and white fell to her face, causing it to twitch. Then some more came. And then some more. John’s red face released into waves of pleasure. The same mother who stood next to him, her judgemental finger running through his math work with the intent to find fault, now lay there, motionless, silent, and vulnerable, as his every drop fell to its porcelain surface. His balls tightened, expelling the goo within, covering his mom’s face with it.

Amy lay there, sticky and naked, as her son sat next to her, the flesh of his body the same tone as hers. He lay back, looking at the two devices on the table. Both of them contained so much more than their humble appearances implied.

He thought about Gianna. He thought about Evelyn. He thought about Danielle. And now he thought about his mom. He could think about all of them as they were underneath, because they had all been captured that way.

He picked up his phone. He opened up Dylan as a contact. He began to write his message.

“I found it,” was all he wrote. He hit send.

He looked at the phone. The same one he had sent the message with. The same one that held his video.

“Also,” he wrote. “I have a little something extr-“

He stopped.

He looked down at his mom’s face.

He looked back at the face of his phone. Dylan’s name stared back up at him.

He took a deep breath and exhaled.

He hit backspace. First once, then again, then again, then again, until there was nothing left.

He put his phone back down.

He picked up the black sock, the camera hanging within it. He looked at the lens which stared back at him. “This,” he said in English. “Is for the guys.”

He touched the bottom of his phone with his fingers tips. He nudged it further down the table from himself.

“And that. That one is for me.”

When Amy woke up the next morning, it was with a splitting headache. The east-risen sun shone down at her through her window and she shielded her eyes from it.

After a while, as if nothing could stop her, she got up.

Her dress from the previous night was still draped tightly around her, something which she was happy to see.

She stood up, her one eye closed from the pain in her head, and she slowly reached around herself to unzip her dress.

Taking it off and letting it fall to the floor, she looked at herself in the mirror, naked but for a bra. Her naked black bush peeked back at her.

When her bra began to come loose from her tender breasts, her head hurt too much to motion towards it. Instead, it fell from her tits and landed at her heels. She stood there, dark nipples and all, naked in the sunlight.

She slowly tilted her head to face her feet.

Down on the ground, her bra sat. At its strap, it looked back up at her. And rather than tied together like a shoelace, it instead sat, strapped the way it should have been – if it only still fit.

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22. Aug. 2023

the first story is so fucking hot.

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