Get Up

The purpose of a good story was to cheer you up. Or at least that’s how your mom saw it.

She sat in the darkness, looking up at the glowing screen, surrounded by a sea of faces bathed in the silver light, and still she felt alone.

“But mommy,” the boy on screen said, his shaky voice blubbering through the surround-sound speakers. “Roger was my best friend.”

“I know, I know, dear.” Barbara Hershey leaned in, hugging the young boy tightly. Her eyes shut, trying to hold him still.

Your mom’s eyes were glassy and wet, reflecting the images on screen.

The little boy wailed. Barbara Hershey clenched her eyes tighter, her crow’s feet prominent on the sides of her eyes.

As your mom sat there, her fat ass embedded deep into her seat, her friend to the left and friend to the right took awkward glances at the side of her face, then past her at each other. Samantha could see in Becky’s eye that she knew she made a mistake by bringing your mom here.

The poster sat there in the lobby. “A Dog is a Boy’s Best Friend.” The young boy held onto the dog, smiling, his arm wrapped around the retriever’s soft, golden throat. The dog’s tongue hung out in joy. The image only represented the earlier moments in the film.

The movie had ended.

Your mom passed the poster, and as she did, she sucked back tears. She lifted her pocket napkin to her nose. Her two friends stood beside each other, the other theatre-goers spilling out behind them. Samantha looked to Becky with “I told you so” eyes.

Becky looked away. She grabbed your mom by her shoulder. “It’s not so bad though,” she offered desperately. “He’ll always remember Roger.”

Your mom didn’t turn around, she only sucked in her sadness all the more harder, it getting clogged in her throat.

Some who passed by looked over at her, her face nearly to the wall, weeping next to the image of the young smiling boy. Some of them though, as they passed, let their gaze fall lower, until landing on the sight of her ass. It sat there, indifferent to the tears. And every few seconds, with your mom’s snort, it would twitch and jiggle.

At the other end of the lobby, two teenagers stared, each with grins in their mouth. “Maybe we should go cheer her up,” one said.

The other didn’t even look at him. He just kept his gaze fixed to your mother’s soft, round ass. It twitched and jiggled again. “Sure,” he said, then he reached down for his crotch and pulled at it with his full palm. “It’s nothing this can’t fix.”

You sat at home on the couch. Your house was silent. You could hear cars passing outside, and the black surface of the television screen faced you in neutral judgment. You stared up at the mantel. A photograph of your grandfather taken a decade earlier sat there with a smile. Next to it sat a polished white urn. Inside that urn was everything left of him.

You stared at it, then back at the photograph. Your expression was flat, lifeless. He smiled back at you from the picture. He would always smile there. He was stuck like that now. That was one way of seeing it. Either that or he was simply grey powder sitting in the cold dark of that urn. There was no in-between state. You could imagine him as one or the other, but as nothing else. He could be nothing else. Not anymore.

You swallowed, your throat dry. “Did it work?” you finally asked yourself. It was the first sound in the house for a while.

All you have to do is wish it, you heard. You could hear it somehow, despite it being something you had only read on screen. You still remember your own cursor blinking as he continued. Just shut your eyes and pray. Say you want a trade. You swallowed again. It seemed so absurd at the time. Think about the person that you want to trade. Remember, they have to be someone you’re willing to lose.

You slowly leaned forward, lifting your hands, which sat there for a moment, above the keys, with a slight tremble. “Really?” you typed.

If you’re not willing to lose them, don’t offer them. But remember if they’re of no value to you at all, it’s not going to work.

It seemed so dumb. So playful, mock dangerous in a way that made it exciting, but only if you bought into the ridiculous superstition of it. Sitting there, with your cock hard, it was very easy to buy into anything, if only just to get yourself off.

So just think about it, the DM read. Is your mom’s ass being ravaged worth losing this person? It’s a serious question. When people die, they don’t die temporarily. They die forever. Is that worth mommy’s big, delicious ass getting piped? 

You were motionless for a moment. You could see your own reflection on the screen of your laptop. You had no expression. You typed. “Anything and anyone is worth my mom’s delicious ass getting piped.” You noticed a twitch in your peripheral, and you looked up to see your reflection staring back at you blankly.

The reply from bluesuede00 came back: Well, I guess you have your answer.

He told you about what you had to do, to clear a space on the floor, remove your pants, underwear and socks (but to make sure you wore a t-shirt). He told you how to kneel there, how to clasp your hands together, and shut your eyes tightly. Then he told you how you were supposed to pray, saying it under your breath. “Take my grandpa and take her ass. Take my grandpa and take her ass.”

Twenty times, he had said, or else it wouldn’t work. And the more you said it above those twenty, the more likely it was to happen. You spent the next hour, kneeling there until your kneecaps were sore, imagining your mom’s ass, beige, naked, and soft, being thrust into by villainous thugs, her mouth and eyes wide with shock and terror, all as your cock got harder, throbbing and alive with a hidden electrical current. Dicks, big and twitching, swinging through the air with a slow confidence, your mom’s face and ass a playground for their prodding thrusts, which poked into her soft and copious flesh, or bounced off it, making music on her on chin or forehead, making sucking wet sounds as they pushed into her vulnerable openings, finding unknown pleasures inside her, pleasures specific to her texture and form; pleasures she spent her life guarding.

Without interrupting the thought, you thought about your grandfather, thought about his smile and his warm voice and his advice to you, even his hand on your shoulder, and felt, all in that moment, a real desire, a vicious and acute one, for him to suffer and die. All while his daughter, your mother, being fucked by young, hard dick played transparently over top of it all. Her ass, big and round, rippling with wild chaos over the image of his warm and familiar face.

You felt an intense, even overwhelming, orgasm rise, and you heard the sound of your cum dropping heavy to the carpet before you even knew that that was what it was, your whole being sucked into its private and personal river of pleasure.

You hadn’t even touched yourself, and now here you were, melting into that self, becoming one with the most extreme pleasure you had ever known in your life. Even still, your prayers continued through all of it. It was as if it were you dripping heavy onto the carpet. As if it were you, your will and all, becoming one with the world around it, your skin no longer holding in the spirit it housed, and the will of that spirit becoming the way of the universe, as if your wish was indivisible from what was.

You sat there, falling back into yourself, until the world-shattering sensation slowly faded, and you found yourself, your ego returned to you, kneeling, sore, on your bedroom carpet. You sat there for a minute or two, silent. Then you, exhaling, pulled yourself up by your computer desk. A new message greeted you there.

bluesuede00: You there?

bluesuede00: Hello?

bluesuede00: You’re doing it, aren’t you?

There was a little emoji of a devil.

bluesuede00: Good.

You knew that “good” was said with righteousness. You had sent him images of your mom and her clothed ass before, and you knew it had produced the same desire, in tiny miniature, to see it get its comeuppance as it had produced in you over countless jiggling, soft years.

bluesuede00: Cheeky bitch won’t even know what hit her.

You smiled at the screen, loving how intense the role-play always got with him. As intense and creative as his stories were. Even still though, you never imagined him invented a role-play as dense as this one was.

bluesuede00: Remember, you can’t take it back now, so just sit back and enjoy, man.

You stared at the message, feeling thick in the afterglow, your reflection over top of it on the screen. Then you saw your brow go tense. You slowly leaned to the keyboard, rested your fingers there until the thought was fully formed. Then you typed out: “Who did I pray to?”

Before you could hit send, another message came from your idol. It read: Godspeed.

Now what greeted you, weeks later, sitting on the stone mantel, was an image of your grandfather as he was. Before he suddenly shot up at dinner, clutched his chest, and fell down dead. He was looking directly at you now, what he was in that picture frame next to what you had made him in that urn. He stared at you, unflinching. His grin locked that way forever, just like the grey powder which sat inert in the darkness.

Becky came back to the table with another tray of shots, a desperate look, like that of someone trying to make up for a mistake, sat perpetual in her eyes. Samantha looked at her with slight contempt. She had told her that dog movies were always like that, to take your mom to a comedy instead.

No part of Becky’s body jiggled as she placed the tray down. “Drinks, girls,” she said. “Let’s get this night started.” She then took an extra glance at your mom.

Your mother’s eyes were red and they stared past the shot glasses rather than at them.

Becky sat down, her bony hip pressed into the fleshy side of your mom’s ass, reminding her slightly of the conversation she had had with Samantha those months ago. The one where they both seriously considered no longer hanging out with your mom. Their conversation on that night, in Samantha’s living room, was rich with so many excuses as to why, digging for them the way a man without a map digs for buried treasure. It was sitting there, with that fleshy and voluminous sensation next to her hip, and that horrible taste in her mouth, that Becky realized the real reason why her and Sam were so eager to shaft your mother forever.

It wasn’t a coincidence that the straw which broke the back of that camel was going to the pool with your mom, their skinny nude bodies in the change-room showers, standing awkwardly as they both gazed at your mom’s voluptuous nudity under the warm spray, twisted edges in their mouth and eyes, all while your mom’s body sat there with an innocent and naive softness.

Bluesuede00, sage that he was, had put it succinctly to you in the most plain and obvious fashion, making it clear to you in that special sort of way you had learned to expect from him: you’ll only have to put so much energy into making this happen, he had told you, his words flat but forceful on the screen. He was referring to the prayer. Judging by the shape of her delicious ass, her friends are already wishing ill on her anyways. If they’re not, then send me pics of them. Then I’ll have three curvy bodies to jerk my cock to instead of just one. You thought about all the strange signs of it you had noticed in your mom’s pretty friends, the behaviors which just didn’t fit, all things being equal. Their hopes will assist yours. Trust me.

Samantha reached for her shot, then seeing your mom sitting there without action or word, she awkwardly reached for another and then lifted it to your mom’s face. Still no response. She grabbed your mom’s wrist and lifted it to the shot glass as if she were positioning a manikin. Your mom looked up at her friend.

Samantha’s heart broke at seeing it. “Here, sweetheart,” she said, placing the glass in your mom’s fingers. “Cheers.” She clinked her glass with your mom’s then lifted the shot to her mouth, taking it back.

Your mom stared for a moment, then looking up at her friend, stared at her, then back down at her glass, staring at it again. Then she lifted her glass to her lips, and slowly, ever so slowly, tilted back her head.

“Pace yourself, beautiful,” Samantha said. “There’ll be plenty more where that came from.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you sure?”

“I saw his skinny blonde ass go under the tires.”

“Did you hear that bitch scream?” said a third.

Another one laughed.

“She was like ‘aghhh!’”

“The whole car went up. I think we got him with both tires.”

“We smashed that little cracker. Like we’s spreading him over soup.”

“Another one, another one,” said the one who laughed. “More dead crackers.”

The car zoomed down the alley. It hit another trashcan.

“I got a better idea with this bitch,” said the driver.

“Five crackers. All at once. Like we bowling.”

The driver continued, his eyes still on the alley lane. He hit another trashcan. “How ‘bout we go get some pussy.”

“Loquisha?” one said. “Or Erin?”

“No,” the driver said calmly. “They busted anyway. I was thinkin…” he laughed.

“Spit it out!”

“Since we already in the business of killing crackers now, how ‘bout we get to fuckin’ one too?”

There was a silence in the car for a moment. They hit another trashcan.

“Niggaaaa,” called one from the backseat. A hand came up, slapping the driver on his shoulder. “You a genius. What made you think of that?”

“I don’t know,” the driver said, his eyes still calm and glued to the road. “It just came to me.”

You sat on your couch, your pants pulled down to your ankles, and you stared at your cock. It throbbed there. The image of your grandfather smiled at it from the mantel.

An image, faint but intense, flashed in your head. The cacophonous sound of a dozen grunts and dark bodies slapping against beige flesh flickered in you just as quickly and then faded.

You got to lose something to gain something, played again in your head, despite it only ever being words on a screen. You’ll know it’s true when your guilt’s at its worst. That’s when it’ll occur to you what you’re getting in return.

Your cock, hard and nagging, twitched before you at bluesuede’s words.

“Godspeed,” you whispered.

Your mom stumbled out the front door of the bar. When she did, she did so alone. She fell to the pavement, almost ready to vomit.

The door bursted open behind her with the sound of two white girls arguing accompanying it. Your mom could hear their nauseating voices becoming one with the pavement and air as she stared at the cold concrete and water. The heels of her hand rested on the edge of the sidewalk. She looked below onto the road where rainwater had pooled up in a tiny pocket.

“I just wanted her to have a good time…”

“Does it look like she’s having a good time?”

“I just wanted her— I just wanted—, I just wanted her to have a good—”

“Oh, shut up. I’m going to be sick too.”

As your mom knelt there, staring at the ground, a man stood aside, staring at her ass poking up in the air.

“Take a picture,” Samantha said in disgust. “It lasts longer.”

The man turned to see Samantha’s flushed face, then walked off.

Your mom stared down, seeing the pavement swirl beneath her. She didn’t know her own mouth was open until she saw a rope of her own saliva fall to that pocket of rainwater and then fade in its shaking chaos, replaced by her befuddled reflection.

Suddenly, she felt a hand on her shoulder.

“You tripped,” a voice said, one void of texture or tone. Then it continued. “Well, the only thing to do then is to get up.” She froze. Shape took to the voice with each gaining syllable. “What else is there to do, sweetheart?” Her mouth was still, no longer with its subtle quiver.

She listened to the voice, gruff and warm, the texture of a bear’s pelt, standing over her. She saw the pavement below, clean, dry, and light blue in the daytime, just like her first time without training wheels, when she slipped and hurt her knee. She felt the warm presence standing over her, the one that stopped her crying. She placed her palms against the cool cement. “Let’s go, beautiful. Up and at ‘em.”

Your mom pushed herself up, feeling a strong arm help to lift her. A warmth crawled through her, an illimitable peace. Only for her to realize before even coming right that this strong, masculine arm was beginning to change, from that of hairy and strong, atrophying until it was skinny and smooth, with nails long and acrylic. She looked up to see Samantha’s face where she truly expected another’s to be, waiting for her with a smile. “Up and at ‘em, beautiful,” her friend repeated. Your mom felt a sensation like grey powder crumbling in her gut. “You had one too many. We need to get you home on your soft bed before your can sleep. Deal?”

Your mom opened her mouth to confirm, but nothing came out. Nothing could. Inside her was only emptiness.

“Why’d you stop?”

The driver looked out the window, seeing the oncoming lane clear for a u-turn.

“Ayo, where you going?” said another in the car. “The Palermo is straight ahead.”

The driver took the turn.

“Hey! Where the fuck is you going?”

“Just shut up,” he finally responded to the peanut gallery. “Trust me.” He didn’t know why he said that. He didn’t even trust himself. Yet, something in him called him this way.

He turned the corner. Two blonde heads appeared.

“Oh, nigga,” said the biggest whiner. “You a genius.”

As the car continued, the two blonde heads, pretty faces, now appeared to be holding something slouched between them.

That’s when they all noticed it. It was a jet-black head, its hair spilling over what seemed to be a flushed face. And between the skinny hips of those two white girls, almost-crawled along, being pulled rather than propelled, a thick always-changing shape, which stuttered and stalled, and tripped and was pulled up again, jiggling with each subtle shift.

“Nigga…” one of the men squeaked, his voice void of any power.

Your mom stumbled again. Her friends’ held her up by her arms. Her ass jiggled, her cheeks smashing into one another, jiggled more, settled, only for her body to be pulled, pushed, fallen over, or pulled up again, in which case they jiggled in turn.

“Forget the blondes,” one of the men said. “Her. Just her.”

The driver passed them, then he steered toward the sidewalk. “Yeah,” he said. He already knew. He knew, somehow, before he even seen her. Even without an image in his mind, there was a spark in his gut. And here he was. Just feet from what he knew would be here.

Your mom was too drunk to notice the clicking open of four car doors behind her.

Your dick was red, hard, and feverish, like it usually was back in those days. Those were the days when puberty had first arrived. It dug its ugly claws into you and dragged you into a world of strange and harrowing lusts, urges which knew no source and held no limit. You would stare at the prick which demanded your attention many times a day. It sat there, eternally in your pants, like some affliction impossible to cure yourself of.

You just stared at it as it rose. It had been through so much that day, beaten to a pulp with your jerking fist, spurting cum and falling limp against your thigh. Yet still, here it was, rising defiantly for another round. First ready for one. Then demanding it.

You, so young then, were ready to meet that demand. Just as you reached for it, your bedroom door clicked and swung open.

Your grandfather stood in the open doorway, his height from the perspective being almost exactly as tall as your cock was. His smiling face slowly transformed into a look of bewildered shock. Then a red-face horror, a deep feeling of humiliation for you and him both.

You lay there, entombed, mummified within your own mortification. The sheets had been kicked off hapharzdly onto the distant floor nearly an hour before, and you sat, exposed from hip-to-toe to the very eyes of your second favorite person in the world.

He must have come to his senses then, after how long, neither of you could tell, because he leaned back out to close the door, leaving you to yourself. But then a voice called from the hallway, freezing him in his tracks. More horrifyingly, freezing you right there, pinning you to the showcase of your own bed.

“Just wait,” called the soft, feminine familiar voice from the hall. “I want to see if his room’s clean.” Her bare footsteps were getting nearer, her volume rising. “If he’s going with you to the game, he’s going with a clean room and clean conscious first.”

Before your mom had even finished that sentence, your grandfather, to your horror, had already shot toward you. He looked as if he had fallen below the foot of your bed, the door behind him swinging open and colliding with the rubber door-jam, only for him to pop back up, your sheets in hand, throwing them over you.

They fell in an awkward clump, just as your mom appeared in the doorway. But, miraculously, they covered everything below your waist.

He spun around to meet her. A smile likely taking to his red-beaten face. “So, how’s it look then?” He looked around at the room, now confirming in your mind that he had put on a very warm and real smile. “Clean enough for baseball?”

Your mom looked around, not noticing anything astray. Then she saw something in the corner. Her brow narrowed. She moved toward it. You could see your own horror reflected in your grandfather’s face. Then it faded all at once, its every muscle falling loose. You looked over to see a Snicker’s bar wrapper sitting just outside the waste basket. She picked it up and threw it in. She then leaned back up. Slowly she began to smile. “There,” she said. “Clean enough for baseball.”

Your grandfather looked at you, smiling with two smiles. The first smile with his mouth, and it said “baseball it is.” The other with his eyes, into which you read “your secret’s safe with me.”

You both watched your mom leave.

Then he turned and looked at you. “I’ll give you a minute,” he said. “Just to freshen up.” He winked at you and pulled the door shut.

You lay there for a moment. You were about to get up, about to get changed to meet him at the front door, when a sudden thought came to you. A recent memory. It was the same thought which had brought you to your room to seek resolution in the first place, but now rekindled. You looked over at the waste basket. You imagined what you had just seen. Your mom, her ass big and round, bending down to pick up that candy-bar wrapper. You then looked to the door, and you imagined, your mom, her ass big and round and jiggly, as she walked out with her motherly confidence, playful and stern all at once.

You imagined that ass, naked and wet, like you had seen it, obscured through the steam-covered glass of the shower, staring, trying to gain as much of it as you could, however low-resolution, without her realizing that you were there, your one eye peeking silently through the crack in the door.

You reached down for your cock, knowing that you had carte blanche to finish what you came here for. It didn’t take long on that day though. All you had to do was touch it. You did exactly that, and for approximately 3 whole seconds, there was no ‘you.’

Your mom felt the world flip over.

She heard two shrieks on either side of her. First loud, then falling away rapidly.

“What the fuck are you—”

She heard a strong thud, and then scream.

“Stop, stop, stop hitting her! What the fuck is—”

The voice was getting lower. She heard thuds, getting lower.

“Stop—”

“Shut the fuck up, bitch!” from a gruff bodyless voice.

She felt the world moving quickly beneath her, as if it were being dragged away. She felt two talons gripping her by her ankles. She felt their pull and she felt the world crawling past.

“Ayo, get the fuck over here. We got her. We got her. Let’s go.” It was coming from above her.

She felt hands, large and rough, grab the crooks of her elbows. The world again spun and then stabilized violently. And soon she felt the outer air suck away, replaced by the overpowering smell of a car air-freshener. Bodies crowded around her.

“Quick, quick.”

“Anyone else?”

“Just those two bitches. Quick. Get out of here, man. Get the fuck out of here. We got her.”

Your mom felt the bodies in fury around her. Hips turning, spinning as if to see behind themselves. Suddenly, the world jerked, and she fell back deeper into what felt like a seat. There was screeching.

Then “we got her, man. We got her.”

“Keep cool, keep cool.”

There was a silence.

Then a hand fell, landing with outspread fingers on her bare thigh. “We got her.” Silky and warm and confident, it rubbed. “We got her.”

Samantha ran screaming down the street. She called your mom’s name with such shrill desperation that nobody could parse it. Becky lay in the grass, her moans getting distant to Samantha’s beating ears. Samantha bolted out into the street, screaming. Screaming as the red taillights of the car grew distant. She knew that inside that car, your mom, and her very large ass, grew small and distant with the men that took it, getting closer, with it in tow to the distant horizon. They would all end up beyond that horizon, the curve of the earth covering their tracks. And wherever they’d go, your mom would go with them.

And Samantha, friend that she was, desperate and panting, no longer able to run, only sob, could do nothing about it.

A strange chalky scent filled the tiny enclosure, competing with the purple grape smell of air freshener. The world again tilted and your mom felt herself fall into one of the muscular bodies, which caught her in its muscular embrace. Something big and long, soft and hard at the same time, landed against her thigh.

“You a genius,” said the voice right next to her ear. “How’d you know? How you’d know?” A talon clenched her thigh and squeezed.

“Just a hunch,” another voice called from ahead, audibly distracted.

The talon on her thigh squeezed harder, gripping her like it was always its object to hold. “It’s a reckoning for crackers tonight.”

“The baby carriage. The baby carriage. Hit it. Hit it.”

“We need to get—”

“Hit it!”

Your mom felt the world jump and skitter. Then it continued with the same old sound, only with a slight hint of high-wailing in the background.

You stood in the bathroom, your body suddenly pulled upright in a sudden jolt, a thrill pushing through you, dragging something terrifying and soft on its way upward.

You could see your shock in the bathroom mirror before you, your eyes unbelieving at what you’d just felt.

Then a voice, one you heard from outside yourself, came to you from the hall, doing so as if it were projected from the very end of the living room, perhaps from a weight which sat, inert, on the mantel.

You could have sworn you heard it, its voice gravelly, as if spoken through a veil of dust.

More than that, you could have sworn you heard, through a dusty choke, what it had said:

“Godspeed.”

A trail of things, like breadcrumbs through the woods, lay across the city, marking a clear and distinct path from the area of its most intense and lively nightlife, to the area of its most hard living.

First a wristband for the bar sat discarded on the road. Soon, a few blocks beyond, a torn ticket stub for a film twirled with the wind. Then, beyond that, a hair scrunchy wet and bloated. A few more blocks, a bit a of a detour, a blouse lay, tattered and smudged with dirt and tire tracks. Then a skirt, off to the side of the road, in a puddle where the street and sidewalk met. Through a back alley, a bra, not too big, lay. And then, as the neighborhood began to get rough, a pair of panties, stained with sweat like a tissue stained with tears, lay blown up against the sucking chinks of a steel fence.

Beyond those panties lay a house, sitting shabby and torn, with a single lamp in its living room.

Four bodies sat naked on the couch. A fifth one, coaxed in its hazy state, crawled and was dragged by eager arms.

“Ghbgghh ghbghhh ghbghhh!”

“Fuck! Fffucckkk!”

Big cocks, just like you imagined, just like you wished for, bounced up and down on muscular thighs. Testicles sat free in the night, with your mom, a slobbering, panting, exhaling mess, crawling from one welcoming lap to the next, a blank distance in her eyes, beckoned like some beast of pleasure by the fleshy appendages which waved her to themselves with strange girthy command.

The cocks would have seemed so familiar to you, if you only could have seen them. And upon seeing them, you would have wondered, with all seriousness, whether you had conjured them yourself out of nothing with your thoughts and fantasies, into existence. After all, it was you who had asked for this. With very little variation—only the finest details—asked for this.

These cocks, big and beautiful and black, pushed deep within your mom’s mouth, filling it with a bizarre taste, one much more crude than the taste of alcohol. A taste which also would have been familiar to you, as you had imagined it for her, tailor-made it in your mind’s tongue exactly for your mom’s brittle palette. Tastes which complimented the cocks in question, and which added to their offense.

And here she was now, tasting those flavors, sucking them wet in her mouth from the every inch of the cocks which suited them so well.

“Suck it, you white bitch,” one of the men said, his voice a merciless and hateful growl.

“Snowbunny whore,” another said with a voice you had dreamt about.

You knew it, with astonishment, feeling it, as if her face was your own. As if your heart wore her expression, and you could feel that expression, loose with sloppy-drunkenness, being padded against with a hard cock. Your heart beat with every dismissive smack against its pretty face and tongue.

Her face, its familiarity, its sweetness, its beauty, and its warmth, sat out there somewhere, you just knew it, being violated the way you had desired it to be. An irreversible violation, without respect or boundary or any notion of the sacred or right.

Without any sight of it, not even within, you could feel it all as if it were sight. As if the image was derived from the ashes of a burnt offering which lay before you in tribal dirt; a funeral pyre and its residue sitting at the peak of some distant high place. Reading auguries into what was left in the grey powder, you derived the truth now the way a blind man read braille. Or like how a blind man witnesses a face with the tip of his fingers. Visceral and thick, it all occurred before you, as real in its invisibility as the wind against your cheek, as the tiles against your bare feet on the bathroom floor. The breeze through the window, in a language all its own, brought tidings of your mother’s face, and the adventures it was currently party to.

“That’s it, bitch. In. In. Let it in.”

And in she did, her mouth choked open by the hand which gripped her throat.

She felt that sensation. Felt the sensation of the objects, soft and hard both, pushing where she always knew her mouth to be. She tasted before she understood her mouth had been filled. Her sense of smell, even awash from the liquor on her breath, situated her better than her blurry sight ever could.

And then the impression on her tongue left, leaving only aftertaste where taste once sat. Then, like thick drops of rain, she felt the barrage against her face, fleshy and stiff and unrelenting.

The cocks fell like thick droplets, cleansing her through their strange ritual. Drops as big as tears, salty, saltier even, fell and with contact pulled from her her every ounce of pain, her every confusion and desolation, and every urge to turn back the clock, all of it bounced against the smooth skin of her face and found absolution at her calves and knees.

“I think this whore likes it,” a voice called from immeasurable distances.

“Drunk bitch! She won’t like it in the morning.”

“Did you see how those bitches screamed when we took her?”

Your mom watched the moment, as if she were sitting at some distance, in a chair alone in a giant black room, looking up at it on a glowing but indistinct screen, its events a meaningful blur.

She could hear nothing, only distortion, but it washed over her, her stomach and scalp, like overpowering waves of comfort, massaging the heartache from her every pore, letting it dissolve and blend toothlessly with the outer blur.

“Watch this!”

The pain struck and then faded, and she grinned, as if the pain had come from inside her soul and had only made collision on its way out. The violence of its leaving being synonymous with the speed at which it left, and the immensity of the relief that remained in its wake.

Entire valleys of relief sat gaped and stretching through her inner landscape, green foliage finding seed where devastation once seemed immortal. Even the barest hints of flora peed through the blackened ash.

“Yes…” she exclaimed.

But in the world outside, it only sounded like a drunken hiss.

“Paint this bitch’ face.” The men pounced on her with a joy equalling her beauty. The wetness of her features like the rich, wet, juiciness of their actions. Below that gorgeous face lay and still-more-gorgeous ass, and they played above it with all the foreplay necessary to make what was next that much better.

The hand inside her, pushing through her indeterminate wetness, felt like a cleansing brush, pulling out the horror. Pulling out, or pushing flat, the loneliness, the loss, the childlike sense of abandonment. Like the stubble of a father’s face, it comforted her on its way inside her and its way out.

The voices all danced as separate entities, then found one another, comingling in short moments like that of a central personality, big and stern and warm, and your mom heard it, either pre- or post-content. Yet the spirit of its words ran through her like rivers of peace. The leaves which rode the river discolored beautifully as they did, their crinkles along the bank like a bedtime story from the intimacy of a dark sleepy bedside.

Your mom lay, her legs up in the air, on that bed. Her nightlight near the ground where she left it. That familiar stubble, and warm breath, and the soft, gravelly voice pushed inside her and massaged her every worry free, assuring her that every recent heartache and every gaping void were only as real as a bad dream.

And then, all at once, she felt herself thrust upward, cradled in those strong, fuzzy, comforting arms, though she was so much bigger than she was back then.

“Flip this bitch over!”

She felt the world turn about her, and she nearly was lost to panic, before it all settled again. Then she felt those hands, supportive and rough, hold her to let her know it was okay. And soon something, something much more definitive now, filled her again, but with much more depth, girth, and leverage.

“This bitch’ ass was meant for this.”

She heard: “shh, shh, baby. It’s all just a dream. A bad dream. It can’t hurt you.”

“I know,” she said, it coming out a muffled vibration against the cockhead which filled her mouth.

The cockhead fell away.

“She’s tighter the deeper you get in this ass.”

She heard: “I’m here, I’m here.”

“You were so far away, daddy,” she mumbled incoherently.

“But I wasn’t. I’m here. I’ve always been here.”

“I know, I know.”

“What’s this bitch saying?”

“I always will be.” She felt her father’s love plunging through her, a love beyond love tingling her insides like it never had before, getting to places within her that no soul or object had ever been, stretching the angst until it was nothing but an open canvass under a soft cloudy sky.

“We eatin’ good, boys.”

The driver didn’t respond to the peanut gallery, he only looked at the giant round ball of beige flesh, which had called to him, through some strange magic, in the night. The voice which had guided him was with him now, guiding him through his immense pleasure.

“Never leave,” your mom mumbled.

“I never will, sweety.”

Her eyes dripped with bloated teardrops. “You’re my best friend.”

“I know, I know.”

“That’s not a normal white girl ass.”

“I know, I know,” the driver said, thrusting with lust and frustration at his friend’s repetition.

“Ah blugbh you, darddy.”

“Yo, I’m about to shut this bitch up.” He came to her face, her eyes glassy and distant.

“Never let me go, dad.”

He felt the vibrations of it, not knowing their meaning, against his throbbing cock. “Keep talking, whore.”

She felt her father thrusting warmly in a deep, fulfilling hug from behind. “Hold me harder. Harder. Never let go.”

“Fffucckk yessss!”

“You’re doing good, baby,” the warm voice told her. She could feel his stubble against her cheek. “Keep going.”

She felt the pat of encouragement against her bottom. She was eager to make him proud.

“I am proud,” he said, as if he knew her mind. “I’ve always been proud. Always will.”

“You a snack, bitch.”

The love, its various sources, was pulled from her, and her world spun around in another instant. You could feel it in that bathroom, seeing it in your own reflected eyes, in the own twitch of your naked cock.

And then she settled. And you did too.

Then suddenly.

You winced at the sharp pain.

“Daddy, stop!”

“Did this bitch just call me ‘nigga?’”

“Oh, we ain’t stopping, bitch.”

“You were out drinking, weren’t you?”

“I…”

“With Becky and her friend. That… Samantha… weren’t you?”

“No, I…”

“I don’t want you anywhere near them. They’re a bad influence.”

“They’re going to get you into trouble one day.”

“It was… I was…” She struggled for an explanation.

“Last thing I want is for you to end up in a bad place.”

Her tongue moved to articulate. “I had lost you!” she suddenly screamed in a guttural bark.

He looked astonished, bafflement on his handsome, warm features. “How could you lose me, sweetheart. I never left.”

As she looked up at her father, his face looming above hers, as exposed in its own nudity as she was, you stood, facing yourself in the mirror, feeling something, something so familiar crawling up within you.

“Baseball it is…” you heard it as clear as day from the living room. And then felt, as sure as rain, a hand on your shoulder. “Your secrets safe with me.”

It was only you in the mirror. Yet you heard footsteps behind you, moving out of the bathroom door and into the hallway.

“I’ll give you a minute. Just to freshen up.”

The door slammed shut in the mirror. You turned suddenly to see it hanging, still open and untouched, next to you.

You heard the sound like a porcelain urn lid being lifted, scraping against the rim of the urn, and then falling shut and settling.

Your mom called for him.

He called back, his voice becoming distant. “I love you sweety.” She could see him waving from some distant shore. “You make me proud. Every day.”

A new rain, this one made of liquid now, fell to her flesh in thick, dripping gobs. It came down warm, thick, and comforting, like stubble or warm breath or a honey-sawdust voice, and she felt it absorb the pain, become fat with it, then drip from her copious body of soft flesh until it was no longer with her.

She lay there, feeling the fury around her grow faint and die, and she lay in a newfound, all-encompassing, unavoidable peace. Once which existed inside her and out. Here and everywhere, without end or beginning.

You lay in your bed, staring at the ceiling. Its form grew more visible as the sun rose.

A tissue sat in the toilet, floating there, encrusted into the shape of a white rose, filled with a hard-earned moment of exalted peace and comfort and closure.

You lay there, free of that urge, just staring at the roof of your house. You saw patterns in its stubble. Just like your grandfather had taught you. “The only magic in the stars,” he’d say. “Is that they’re so far away. Look up.” You did what you were told. And above you was a constellation of equal shape and sophistication, all of it etched into the fine details of ceiling glitter. “The magic is all around you,” he said. “Don’t forget it.”

You lay here, a decade later, knowing that was true.

Your laptop lit up. Someone had sent you a message. You didn’t even have to ask who it was or what it was about. You knew, just as he did. You could both feel it.

She lay there, staring into a blackness which was, to her knowledge and memory, the entire world. She lay there in a profound peace. She could have laid there forever. Or at least she thought so at the time. Then she felt a hand on the small of her back. Its fingers stretched out broad, rough but warm. Strong but comforting.

Lost but familiar.

It spoke without a single word.

You’ve fallen, it said. Well, the only thing to do then is…

A body emerged from the doorway of the house, its feminine shape complimenting the square and symmetrical doorframe which it leaned on for support.

It took a few steps, and then emerged, in its full nude glory, upon the porch. The sunlight played off its beige smoothness. A rim of orange light played off the curve of its widest shape.

It walked down the few stairs, stumbling, unsure, yet somehow certain, as if guided. Wind whispered through the grass and trees. Its voice danced upon the orange rays of sunrise.

She passed the fence. A pair of panties, its tears spent, lay against it, crumpled.

She turned down the sidewalk, using the fence to keep her up.

She walked for a while, for what felt like a long time, and the fencing which held her up eventually turned from steel to wood. She never stopped or second-guessed a step. Only when she felt a familiar fence post against her fingers did she stop.

She turned.

Home stood there, staring back at her.

She reached over the fence and clicked open the latch, almost falling into the yard as it gave. She stumbled up the walk and into the house, feeling the concrete steps cool against her soles. The gate hung open, swaying minutely against the breeze. She disappeared inside the house.

You heard her, saw her shadow in the hallway. Saw its shape, saw the difference in what it looked like leaving the house the night before, the lack of hanging fabric, the lack of a sure step. The shadow grew larger, and with it, its curves did too.

She passed by the doorway within a brisk second. But in that second, you could see it. It was only a second of jiggling, nude flesh, but it was an immortal one.

Your secrets safe with me.

In the sparkle of the ceiling above, a sole node fluttered as if to wink.

Your mom fell to her bed and it squeaked beneath her. Not as hard as it did with two bodies. It had been a while since your dad had passed away. And even less since her dad did.

She lay there, her eyes shut, dwelling in her own peace.

Suddenly, she felt a presence at the door.

Without a sound, it walked over, and she felt it looming above.

The bed suddenly squeaked, heavy now with the weight of two bodies.

Suddenly, a kiss fell to her shoulder, one rich with stubble. A hand fell, landing on her bottom with a playful squeeze.

Suddenly, another squeak, and the bed lifted. She lay there, hearing, without hearing, the footsteps leaving the room.

The presence stood at the doorway for a moment, looking in. She knew without a sight that it was looking in.

Then it turned and was gone.