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Friend Like Me

Your mom was asking for it.

It was as simple as that. This was painful for you to admit to yourself. After all, no woman is asking for it. That’s what you told yourself ever since you discovered that mantra on the internet a full decade ago.

But it just wasn’t true. Though it could be made true with one simple amendment. No woman is asking for it, except for your mom. Now that you could get down with. “My mom is asking for it,” you said to yourself in your room. You had just seen her in her Princess Jasmine costume in the living room, the one you bought her.

You bought it for her knowing full well your brother’s friend, the one who had a crush on her for years, would be showing up to the dance as Aladdin. They’d meet each other, pointy shoes facing the other’s pointy shoes. They’d make comments about the coincidence and your mom would smile as your brother’s friend tried in vain to conceal his barely noticeable shaking. Your mom thought he had a condition. After all, every time she saw him, he shook. She never saw him when he wasn’t shaking. Everyone else had though. Your mom’s empathy for him underscored by the weight of her giant breasts. His waves of shakiness only receding minutes after your mom’s ass wiggled out through the nearest doorway.

You stood in front of your bedroom mirror, dressed as Abu, your furry monkey pants rolled down at your ankles like a scrunchie. Your rich cock, the same hue as your mom’s breast and ass, being tugged by the soft hands you inherited from her. You were excited for the night’s festivities. Excited for the plan you hatched with with mom’s soft ass in mind. The plan’s focal point. The planet by which all your plan’s details orbited on the warm edges of its omnipotent gravity.

Your mom was a chaperone. A chaperone in a hall full of unruly teenagers. Their hormones explosive within them like gunpowder trapped within metal. Your mom, sculpted by nature just for their excitement. Nobody could be around your mom without sex on their mind. Not even necessarily with her. But the thought of sex followed her like butterflies followed the smell of flowers on a cool breeze.

At the last family reunion, her closer male relatives, squeezing passed her through the narrow slots between tables, were forced to consider the shape of her ass and breasts as they did. They had no choice, logistically speaking. For your more distant male family, especially the young ones, her body was all they could think and smile about. They were far enough, swinging from a distant branch on the family tree, that the incestuousness of it all felt slight and negligible, but close enough that her objectification felt naughty and experimental. Not close enough to care and protect her, but not far away enough to be interested in her sexual humiliation. A nasty combination.

And if any of those men shared that gene within you, whichever one it was, that made you you at your very core, their lust to see her be had by a man was likely raging within strongly and confidently. Overpowering, but self assured in its own rightness.

You were a naughty monkey, tugging your prick enough in the mirror to get excited, but not so much that you kill the fountainhead where all your drive for this was derived from. The furry monkey leg pants felt good as you pulled them up over your devious cock. “You better not cover yourself up anymore, mom,” you said under your breath, “because that would make me very angry.”

Luckily, when you came back out into the living room and saw her breasts swing around the corner you could breath again. She was going to be on all fours at the end of the night regardless, you would make sure of that, but the less she wore tonight, the more she would be asking for it. Not that she was ever not asking for it. She had been ever since you hit puberty and everything in nature began speaking to you, telling you she deserved this. But her being this exposed, much more exposed than she had ever made herself previously, made this all feel so much more justified.

When she went down into the damp basement for a shawl that would fit with the costume, you muttered under your breath: “No woman is asking for it, except for mommy.”

Her tits bounced as she came back up the stairs.

All eyes were on her at the dance. Immediately, she drew cones of attention like some freak of nature. She, unaware that such attention and looks were not normal for 99.9% of all humanity, walked through the thick muck of everyone’s conscious awareness of her with ease and obliviousness, as usual. A bubble that would only be burst 7 years from now when she’d hit the wall. Only then would she no longer be asking for it, except for even then that wouldn’t be true as the fumes of her former glory, mingled with the exotic largeness of her finely-aged ass, would still be enough to justify just about any indiscretion with her under the sun.

As men raped the clone of her that only existed within their minds, she laughed and comingled with other parents and teachers, allowing the males ones to get close enough to give their mind-clones of her her specific smell. You realized you were in a crisis when the creep shots started spilling in and you realized that the brown fuzziness of your Abu pants made for an easy-to-spot anomaly around your waist area.

You tried to think about something else, but the only image that came to you was the memory of accidentally walking in to your brother jerking off to a pornstar being fucked on his laptop. A brunette with a large ass and tits. Then the thought flashed to catching your uncle doing the exact same thing. The implications of it were likely below conscious awareness to both of them, but it didn’t stop you from being turned on by the thought. Especially on this night.

You quickly headed for the bathroom. Once inside, you found a vacant stall, let your cock free, and sat down on the closed toilet seat. You tugged on within the embrace of the aura all around you. the aura of these nights where everyone comes together as one body. But what was originally supposed to be a celebration of the human creativity and imagination embodied by a costume ball, had become a celebration of your mom’s costume and the body it covered up. You wouldn’t want it any other way, but it was making it hard not to blow your load too quickly.

Either way, you had trained for this. Trained by internalizing these lusts - nay, needs - so that even in the tyrannical throws of post-nut “clarity”, you could still act as an agent for your hornier cause. A valuable skill that should be developed by all practitioners within this fetish. Maybe busting a load here would give you the clarity of mind you needed to accomplish the next step, and stop you from drawing any unwanted attention towards yourself.

Luckily, two voices spilled from without the cacophony outside into the echoey mindscape of the bathroom.

“Did you see the fucking tits on Craig’s mom?”

“Holy shit, dude. Yeah. They’re huge.”

“Dude, I’m fucking her tonight.”

“Oh yeah, whatever you say man.”

“No, but seriously. Do you think Craig would mind?”

“No, I think he wants you to fuck his mom.”

The other one laughed. “Could you imagine? He puts in a good word for me, maybe liquors her up a bit, so I can pound?”

“Yeah. If only that’s how it worked.”

“He might as well just roofie her. It would be the fastest way. She wouldn’t see it coming.” The tap turned on.

“Yeah. If anyone would do that for you, it would be his fucking brother.”

He laughed again. “Oh yeah, that schizoid. I used to have him on AOL messenger. Just as a goof. Remember how it used to show you what music someone was listening to or what video they were watching?”

“Yeah,” the other voice said intrigued.

“He must have never realized, because I swear for like 16 hours a day he was watching pornstar punishment and hidden camera videos.”

“Holy shit. Are you serious?” the other one asked and laughed.

“Yeah. Ask Tim. If anyone would be secretly into watching his own mom getting fucked, it would be that guy.”

The other one snorted humorously. “He probably bought her that costume she’s wearing.”

The first one laughed. “Well, he at least didn’t stop her from wearing it. Do you think Craig would have allowed that? Lucky for us he’s in Canada right now with his flat-chested bitch.”

The bathroom door opened again, allowing the sounds from outside to spill out, and then it closed, leaving you alone to silence.

You were wiping your own cum from your chest and stomach and the edge of your costume. Luckily it was only the edges. Nobody would notice the stains in the dark of the dancefloor. Now you were ready. With no excess horniness or externailites to watch out for, you could work in service of your future horny self without interruption. You were driven now by nothing but a moral duty. No self-interest, just the knowledge that you had to give the woman who was asking for it so deeply what she deserved. She had no right to be safe from what was coming next.

You came out right at the magic moment when your mom and her Aladdin locked eyes. Your mom’s face curled up into a good humored smile. His face curled to hide his need for her, a love undying. Longing to hear her laugh and voice, he approached. Longing to address the similarity in their costume, she did the same.

They talked for a bit, him shaking, which she ignored out of politeness. They went over to the punch bowls. As they ladled themselves punch, one of your classmates, dressed as a 1950′s era street hood, could be seen, but not heard over the loud music, saying ‘fuck’ when he saw her take her drink from the bowl that hadn’t been spiked by him. It was at this point that you realized your horniness was back.

“Don’t worry man,” you said under your breath, “she’ll be drinking from a spiked drink soon enough.”

As your brother’s friend awkwardly talked to your mom, and everyone else looked on jealously, all wishing they were Greg’s best friend instead, and your mom existed in this moment oblivious to the full range of wild dynamics surrounding it, he walked into the hall.

In bright red and dark black. With a parrot on his shoulder, and a real goatee. It was Jafar.

Or at least, your brother’s worst enemy, who was ironically his best friend’s older brother, dressed as Jafar.

“The cavalry has arrived,” you said to yourself.

He saw your mom and his brother first. Then he looked around more thoroughly until he caught your eyes. He made his way over to you. You thumbed the plastic baggy with two treats inside through your pant pocket.

“Did you put it in?” was the first thing he asked.

“No,” you said, sheepishly, still a little frightened of him. “I wanted to make sure you were coming. I didn’t want your brother taking her home.”

“Good boy,” he said.

You noticed something was missing. “Where’s your snake staff? They told me it was part of the costume.” You remember feeling it rattling around in the box when you took it home from the mall.

“Right here,” he said and tapped his crotch area. “This is the only snake scepter I need. Right now it’s just a snake. Later tonight, if you do your job, it’ll be a scepter.” He smiled down at you. A wicked smile. “By the way, I can see you brought your scepter too,” he said and looked down at your crotch area.

Your hard cock poked at the fabric of your pants arrogantly. You no longer cared though, as if this night was the only night of your life. Your mom’s soft ass was on the line. Up for grabs. And you didn’t care about anything else. Nothing in your life mattered as much. Not your own reputation. Not even your mom’s safety or dignity.

“Okay,” he started, “so you brought the blue?”

“Yeah,” you said, thumbing it ritualistically in your pocket as if not doing so would mean its evaporation. “I have two, to knock her out good.”

“Good girl. Okay now, just do your job. Don’t fuck up. Your mom’s ass is all that’s on the line. If you make a mistake, your brother will just have to go on in life without me having fucked his mom. I’m sure you can live with it.”

You just shook your head in the negative. As if you didn’t dare speak of what he just said.

“Okay, then,” he said. And with that, he turned you around by your shoulders, and spanked your ass, sending you off into the direction of you shapely mother and her futile suitor.

You took a big gulp as you approached your grinning mother, her drink held inches in front of her at waist level. The pills firmly pressed into your sweaty right hand by its fingers, dissolving slowly within them. You got closer to her side profile. And closer. And then, without really knowing what you were going to say, you spoke.


“Yes, sweety,” she said and turned to meet you.

“Oh, hi man,” said your brother’s friend, genuinely happy to see you.

“Hey,” you said, only taking half a second to look into his wide eyes. “Mom, can we st-stay the wh-whole night?”

She looked at you strangely. “Well..” she started, “of course. I’m a chaperone. We can’t leave here until everyone else does. Don’t you remember, silly?” She tapped you on your shoulder playfully with her free hand.

“Oh yeah,” you said. “I forgot.”

And you turned around to walk off. Your mom giggled behind you, and turned to the stuttering mess to continue her conversation.

Jafar looked at you, his bewildered look getting bigger as you got closer. When you finally got into ear range, his first words were: “what the fuck was that?”

You just looked down.

Then you looked back up at him and lifted your upturned right fist. And you opened it. Revealing and empty palm.

His scowl turned into a grin. An evil grin.

And you both turned to look at your mother, who nodded at her conversation partner’s shivering words, periodically taking sips from her red cup.


“Do you have your license yet?”

“No,” you said. You looked over the principals shoulder as the gym teacher scolded the kid in the 1950′s hood costume. He held the kid’s own flask up to his face, screaming at him, just barely audible over the music.

“I could give a ride home then,” she said.

“No, it’s okay,” you said. You held your mom up in your arms. She giggled next to you and spoke gibberish. You looked over at your brother’s friend, who had a look of concern on his face. Concern over your mom’s safety now, but also impotent rage, connecting the dots to assume, just as everyone else had, that she was drunk from the 1950′s hood kid stealth liquoring her up for his own fiendish devices.

“Then how will you get home?” the principal asked.

“I already have a ride.” You motioned behind you to the tall man in the Jafar costume. And when you looked back in front of you, drawing attention away from your principal’s face before you, was Aladdin in the background, a look of terror in his eyes. Your mom suddenly wrapped her arm around your shoulders and said “sisisipi”. Her tits jiggled in her bra, the top of her aureola becoming just visible. You pulled her shirt up quickly and responsibly. Your brother’s friend wanted to shout. But he didn’t know what.

“Okay,” your principal said. “You guys haven’t been drinking from this bowl, have you?”

“No,” you said. “I didn’t drink any punch tonight.

“Okay,” she said. “Good. Drive safe.”

“We will,” you said.

And as you turned with your mother, and met Jafar’s devious eye, you felt somebody behind you.

You both walked on towards the exit, and just before you got to the door and the cool, uncrowded air outside, you heard a stuttering voice from behind.

“I’m s-sorry this h-happned to h-her, man,” it said. You turned around to see him standing there, pulling his coat on. “Let’s g-get her home s-safe.”

“Yes we will,” you rocketed out, and stood there.

“Yeah. Let’s go,” he said, not looking at you in the eyes, walking passed you.

His brother and you stood in place as he got to the door. When he realized nobody was following him, he stopped at the handle and turned around to look at the two of you. “Are you ready?” he asked, teeth chattering.

His brother spoke first. “We’re not going.”

“But,” he protested. “She’s drunk, we need to get her home.”

“Okay. You’re not going.”


“You know what,” he said, with that famous suddenness of his. The one that terrified you the first time you met him, and hadn’t stopped terrifying you to this day.

“We need to get her-”

“Get out of here. Now.”

“But...” his younger brother pleaded.

“Do you want another beating?”

“I don’t understa- we’re all going to the same place, right? I just want to help.”

Are we going to the same place?”

His younger brother looked at you, knowing exactly what his brother meant, always knowing. Trying to stop it without saying what he knew to you. Now he was looking at you, hoping, believing you’d know what his brother was trying to pull on you without it being said. His brother had given it up just now, after all. You couldn’t be that dense not to see what was happening.

“You’re really going to do this,” his older brother said. “You’re really going to try and cockblock me-”

You interrupted: “I know what you did?”

“What?” Your brother’s friend asked.

“My mom isn’t drunk,” you said.

“What?” he asked again, his eyes wide, his teeth chattering audibly.

“My mom never drank from that punch bowl. She drank from the safe one.”

He just stared at you, unclear about what you were saying.

“She’s not drunk.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look at her pupils. She’s not drunk. It’s worse than that.”

He looked at her. His eyes went wide. “You mean-”


“Jack drugged her?”


“Then what?” he pleaded, horrified.

“You drugged her.”

His jaw dropped. “What?”

“I saw you.”

“What?” he said, his voice becoming high pitched and shrill.

“I saw you.” you said, your voice raised in anger.

“But...” he pleaded. “But... I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“No,” he said. “You don’t understand. I would never do anything to hurt her. I love her. I’ve al-”

“Yet the two of use saw you do it.”

“Yeah, man,” his brother said. “I saw you do it.” A grin took hold of his face, from ear to ear. Sickening. Evil.

He looked back at you. “Did he tell you I did it? He’s lying to you. He wants to take her home.” A look of realization took hold of his face. “He did it! He’s trying to trick you.”

The calm assertiveness on your face made him stop. He waited, confused and terrified, for what you’d say next.

Listen,” you said, “there are no cameras here. Only chaperones. And they must not have been doing their job. Because none of them caught who did it either way. But at the end of the day, somebody did it. And I assure you. It wasn’t your brother. And it wasn’t Tom. But everyone here tonight saw you, inches away from it, talking to my mom since you got here. Talking to her, while blushing and sweating and stammering as if you had something to hide. And on top of that, her son, who loves her more than anything in the world, and your brother, who has every incentive to try to save your skin, are both going to say to whoever is listening, which will be everyone, including the police when it gets out that drugs were involved, that you were the one who did it. You were the one who did it, and then you rushed to the door to take her out with you after the drugs took effect.”

His confusion almost made him speechless. But he managed to squeak something out: “But I said we should take her out together. I’ll be with you guys the whole time. You can w-watch me. I can’t do anything even if I was sick enough to want to.”

“Yeah, I’m aware of what you’re trying to do. But I won’t tell them that. I’m going to tell them just what I told you I’d tell them. And even if the cops don’t get involved - even if they do but there’s a lack of evidence - do you think my brother will ever want to talk to you again? Even if he’s partly sure you’re telling the truth. There’ll always be a part of him that isn’t. And more importantly, how much do you think my mom will want to talk to you again? Do you think she’ll see you as the cute stuttering young man any more? How good will your chances with her be after that? Of course, if you don’t do anything, except turn around and walk back to the dancefloor and shut up, maybe I can turn this around for you. Maybe I can put in a good word for you. Just pick your battles. Let her go, this one night, and win the war in the long run.”

All the pieces were there, floating the black waters of his mind, but he refused to put them together into the horrible shape they made in the dark. “I don’t... understand,” he said, struggling to choke back tears.

You knew how to make it as clear to him as possible. You leaned in close to his trembling chest and you whispered: “She’s asking for it.” You pressed your hard cock against his thigh.

The dots were all connected now. And a tear fell from his eye, trailing down his trembling red cheek. A compendium of ideas floated through his head, quickly like a shuffling deck of cards, but all ideas had a counter to them. A roadblock, set up by you in advance. The thought of a prison cell, or at the very least, the interrogation room, or at the very, very least, your mom’s sweet, warm smile replaced with a scowl and her head turning away. Turning away forever. This, though least in theory, was the worst in reality.

His brother grinned at him. His grin sickening and wrong. Now intermixed with a feint hint of him being impressed by your ingenuity. Flattered by the lengths you’d go to see him take your mom.

A woman came into the building. When she did, she saw a Jafar and Abu taking a drunk Jasmine outside as a red-faced and bawling Aladdin walked deeper into the venue and away from his own film-mates.

“A whor nuh wuhld” your mom said as you both manhandled her to his car.

He started laughing.

“What?” you asked.

“She’s trying to have a mother-son conversation with you.”


You had only ever driven a car with your mom before. Tonight was no different. The only difference was instead of sitting in the passenger seat giving you pointers, she was laying down in the back seat, her white tits being sucked, and her pussy being fingered as she spoke gibberish.

If you hadn’t jerked off earlier, you would have crashed. Luckily, you were able to safely get the car to his place. You had always planned to take them back to your house, but to confirm your brother’s friend’s worst version of what he thought would happen, you brought her to his house. His brother assured you that their parents weren’t home. Their dad was always out on Friday nights, and would never come home until the morning, and they had never met their mom. You were about to add a little element of the feminine to their house.

When you got there, the neighbor watched as he pushed your mostly naked mother inside, aggressively. The neighbor knew she was inebriated. But he couldn’t bring himself to feel sorry for her. Not with a body like that.

It didn’t take long after getting inside for the festivities to begin. Your mom’s naked ass and tits and chemically induced wet pussy and defenseless mouth were everything your world revolved around. And now you were about to crash land into the source of your gravity.

Many points of no return, moments you’ve fantasized about for years, now happened in short succession one after the other. Her naked ass, exposed. Her pussy fingered. Her tits sucked. Her mouth engulfed around a strange cock. A cock slapped across her face. A man’s ass sitting on her face. Vaginal penetration, first getting it in, then the first few thrusts until an equilibrium was reached. Then anal penetration.

You filmed these sacred moments. So that they could be remembered and cherished forever. 7 years from now, when your mom would stop doing it for guys like she did now, you would worship the warm glow of this video on your laptop screen every night.

2 years after that, your brother’s friend, wanting to relive an older time, and refeel and old crush, one he had lost not long after she had lost her beauty, gave in and asked to see the video. Having already settled down with, and married a woman significantly less impressive than your mom was back then, he appreciated that this video existed, and more so, that he played a part in its existence.

You had put the video on the internet and tagged it with all the appropriate tags. Secretly hoping that your brother, now living in Canada, would stumble across it. After all, it fit the profile of the porn he loved viewing to a tee. You could never ask him of course. And he, not knowing that it was you who orchestrated and shot the video, could never ask you.

Whether he enjoyed it or screamed at the top of his lungs at it, you would never know. Did it fill him with excitement and pride, or shame and horror? Or was it almost guaranteed to be both. Especially with a woman with a body like your mom had. You could never really control your reaction when it came to a woman like your mom. Regardless of what you thought you should feel, you’re real reaction would always be forced on you. Forced on you like a pill in your drink or a young man on your inebriated form.

At the end of the day, you could never know what the truth was. All you could do was imagine. And you chose to imagine what you thought was best. That your brother would see the events of that night through the very lens you had seen them through. That is, through the message etched upon the glass: She was asking for it. She was always asking for it. And justice be kind, she got it.

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