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Hear Me Roar

Part I

You were thankful that your dad and brother were separated from you by a thousand miles of flyover country when you had decided to switch your major.

“Gender studies!?”

You could hear your dad’s voice behind your mom’s supportive “I’m so proud of you, sweety!” over the phone.

It was the forcefulness of it, that rattling timbre, in your dad’s protest which reminded you exactly why you were so eager to get away. “What does he-“

“That’s so exciting!” your mom said. “And I think it’s right up your alley.”

You wanted to celebrate with her, but you heard your dad and brother’s voices in ballet with one another, united in their bafflement somewhere in the background of your childhood home.

“That’s a BIG change,” your mom continued. “But you know me and your dad are always here for support. Financial, spiritual, or whatever else.”

“Gender studi… Isn’t that for girls?” Your dad seemed to be asking your brother this.

“Thanks mom,” you said. You shifted in place awkwardly.

“No, thank you,” she replied.

You sat confused for a moment.

She continued: “It’s not the easiest thing in the world, being a woman. It makes me very happy that you want to understand that. Especially because nobody is forcing you to.”

You smiled in the corner of your mouth and shifted in place again. “It… don’t mention it, mom. I…”

“Tell him to switch back,” your dad’s voice told her in the background. “The girls there are going to think he’s gay or something. Tell him to switch back to psychology… or philosophy… or whatever the hell he was taki-”

“Uh, your dad’s very supportive,” she said instead.

You looked down at your socks.

“Really, he is,” she said. “As always, he’s very proud of you.”

“I know. Listen mom, I have to go now. I need to study.”

“Good, good!” she said. “Hit those books!”

You smiled awkwardly. “Bye mom.”

“Bye beautiful.”

The phone line went dead.

You sat there, the phone still against your ear, inanimate and cold there like the bones of some long rotted-away carcass.

On your computer screen, your mom’s naked body moved about, washing itself with soapy suds, the lion’s share of which fell in a cascade down her impossible shape. You imagined her voice (“that’s a big change!”), tugging yourself to the moment when her hand would push through that white-and-clear waterfall and disappear between the soapy butt-cheeks which gave it form.

Then the coming-moment came. The bathroom door slammed open, its knob hitting the bathroom wall. Your mom twisted in place, her body jiggling in response. “Open it slowly,” your mom said softly and patiently. “The jam is busted, I told you.”

“Sorry tuts,” your dad said in playful dismissiveness.

She turned around and faced the wall silently.

Boys will be boys, you thought, your bottom lip curled with disgust.

You tugged yourself fervently, despite knowing what was coming.

And then it came.

Your dad stepped into the shower, naked from head to toe. His body more angular, and solid, and hairy than anything your mom had to offer, her body clear, smooth, and soft. His cock was already half-hard, and it swung through the air, its tip rubbing against your mom’s butt-cheek, crossing over the underside of her crack, making it even harder.

You let go of your cock and it fell against your thigh, losing its rigidity and size as much as your dad gained.

Your only consolation was that your dick looked nothing like your father’s.

He slapped her on her ass.

You paused the video in protest.

Your mom’s ass stopped, caught in the moment of rippling. At the center of that ripple was a dimple the exact size of your father’s palm. Your dad’s big, hairy hand a half-foot away from it just from the equal-and-opposite force of the impact. The look on your dad’s face, frozen in time, was one of dominance and entitlement. Your mom only looked away and at the wall, her expression unremarkable and flat, as if she saw no problem with the proceedings. A picture could sure say a thousand words. It could speak a thousand secrets too, some hidden in plain sight.

You had promised yourself months ago, at about the time when you realized you were really enjoying Gender Studies 101, that you would never watch the video past this point (you weren’t even supposed to watch the slap again).

Even still, images from it, half-remembered and exaggerated, flashed in your mind now. Your dad’s body, like a gorilla’s, his wild arms moving across hers, obscuring her as he gripped and enjoyed her. Squeezing her, butt-cheek, thigh and breast, kissing her, lips, chins, and neck. Holding her throat, pressing his cheek to hers, her eyes shut in quaking bliss as he thrust from behind, her body seeming as if it would disassemble on molecular level just due to the thrusts’ aftershock alone, every iota of which ran through as jiggles through her body.

Then the thought came to you, and the sound. The sound of that echoey squeak as her feet rubbed the bathtub’s interior, being lifted from the ground by your dad’s strong arm against her thigh. Both thighs becoming airborne, with her feet hanging, pointing downward, in mid-air, as his stayed flat against the bathtub’s floor.

The control he had over her. The control she ceded. And ceded gladly, willingly, lovingly.

Your cock lifted off your thigh, and after a few seconds more, it pointed upward. Then it throbbed.

Nothing had changed on the screen. Still there, looking back at you, your mom’s rippling ass, marked with that palm-sized dimple, and her banal expression, with no indication in it of what was to come, and your dad’s tensed arm and active hand, and his gritting face and eager eyes, an indication of what he wanted and, therefore, what would necessarily come to be moments later.

You swallowed. Your cock throbbed. You looked down at the mouse, and a line of worry ran through you, the kind which would subside once given into, but you, being someone of principle, had trouble doing exactly that.

You put your hand down on the mouse, feeling your cock throb as you did. You slowly dragged the cursor over the waiting play button.

You lifted your index finger.

Your dorm room door rocketed open.

“What up, faggot!?”

You slammed your laptop screen closed within an instant.

“It’s a figure of speech,” you heard him say, quietly as if to someone standing next to him.

You tilted your head to get a look behind you, not wanting to expose your erect penis or the implication it left regarding what you were just doing.

Your dormmate stood there, the flank of a black-haired beauty up against his, with both of them looking down at you.

In a second though, their careless smiles began to change. Hers from one of a look of playfulness and fun to that of awkward, silent horror, and his to one form of fun and devilry to another much more acute and palpable.

His eyes widened as they lit up.

“Were you….” He turned to the girl in his arm in utter disbelief. “This is the third time I caught this guy like this.”

She stood there silently, a little flush in the cheek. She shrugged.

“Bro,” he said. “You’re in a fucking university. There’s nothing but ass out there for you to get your rocks off with. What the hell are you doing in here cranking your dick all day?”

Your face burned and you turned around and looked out the window. As you cowered from your own embarrassment, and all the little things about you it implied, your dormmate’s words replayed in your mind: “ass out there,” “rocks off.” You grimaced at the vulgarity of it, and then at the fact he had said it with a woman present, and then, most painfully, at the realization and knowledge that it wouldn’t cause her to look at him, scowl, unhook herself from his brawny arm, turn and leave the room in a huff. It wouldn’t do any of that at all. He was still holding onto her, his arm wrapped securely around her hip, behind you. And what’s more, she still preferred it that way.

You awkwardly began trying to pull your pants up and zip them closed without being obvious, despite the moment for successful subterfuge having passed. You then stood up and you passed the temporary couple with your head down, trying not to look the girl in the eyes, and failing for a moment, seeing how sorry she felt for you within that split second, and bringing that shame with you as you exited.

Before you cleared the doorway, and sulked through the halls, you took one last look behind you, an impulsive one, getting a clear look at the girl’s ass in her black jeans as you did, absorbing in that second its shape and size, before realizing her date for the day (and the inheritor of that ass and all its wonder) was watching you, his shining eyes over that sickening smile, deriving pleasure for himself in your suffering and becoming a witness for your trial in the courts of eternity if ever so called upon.

As you moved down the hallway, male bodies, most of them bigger than you in width if not in height, moved past you on either side. Some of them didn’t even attempt to make way for your passage.

Instead, with your head hung low, you made way for theirs.


“What is rape culture?” The professor asked it with an authoritative stance, her hand on her hip.

You sat there, looking down at her from your seat in the back of the auditorium, knowing the answer to her question, wanting to answer it but not having the bravery to.

Instead, a feminine hand, half-open in its vulnerability, thrust itself above 150 heads.

“Joanne,” the professor called with a grin.

“Rape culture is a system of oppression which subjects female bodies to the male gaze.”

You admired Joanne’s ass in its seat, it being so big it spilled over the orange edges of the chair it was plopped upon.

“Correct,” said the professor. She turned around, and you looked over at her to get a good look at her large, middle-aged ass as she began to write. “The male gaze, and rape culture, don’t necessarily have to be acts of direct aggression. Then they would just be called inappropriate staring or rape or assault or whatever the action is. Rape culture…” she paused to focus on writing, her ass swayed and jiggled as she took sharp stabs at the blackboard with her white chalk. “…is when a woman can’t exist as a physical being without being filtered through the awareness and categorization of male perception and framing.”

As you admired Dr. Kramer’s shape, and truly appreciating the intellect that came along with it, you mused about how much more attractive she would be if her face only matched the promise of her body.

She spun around, facing the mostly-female class with a grave seriousness, only underlining your point.

“Rape culture isn’t perpetuated with intent, at least not necessarily. It’s, more often than not, a careless result of indifference on the part of men. After all, our society is a patriarchal one. Men, unless made aware, will have no inherit understanding of the advantages and privileges they have over us.” She then looked around at the classroom, noticing you and the other man in her class. “Present company excluded, of course.”

You smiled warmly, happy to be accepted. Happy to be on the right side of these issues.

You then looked over at Joanne, and you were happy to see her looking back at you. She gave a friendly smile at you, matching the humor of the moment, and then she turned back around.

You gazed at the back of her brunette head for a moment, then your eyes naturally fell to the elevation of her impossibly-large butt-cheeks.

You imagined yourself standing behind them, with her bent over before you, and you imagined the way her cheeks would give as you thrusted deeply into her from behind, filling the female dorms with the sound of those cheeks and your pelvis clapping as one.

You imagined cuddling with her afterward, kissing her, loving her like you loved all women implicitly. Appreciating her the way most men refused to, not just for her body, but for her soul. Inspiring her in her pursuits, making sure to remind her that when she had doubts that she could do whatever a man could do, no matter how much others told her otherwise. You imagined her eyes shut, her bliss palpable, as your skinny body, its shape and weight unthreatening and androgynous, pleasing her as an equal. Her ass rubbing itself into your cock as you kissed her on her neck and chin. Feeling her ass in your palm and fingers, not spanking it, not wanting to cause her pain, not even for a moment.

When Dr. Kramer turned back around and continued writing, you then imagined her face-down, not looking at you and ruining the mood. You imagined your cock between her excessively large but cheeks, running alone within, those fleshy, age-pocked hills surrounded it on both sides as you pressed her cheeks together, thrusting without penetration, only sensation.

It had to happen, you thought. Sex. My first time. You were an ally now. It was bound to happen because of it. It had to.

You were a Gender Studies major after all. That meant you deserved it.


Your dad and mom fucking in the shower, her cheeks clapping as water splashed off the unstable flesh of her body, stared back at you.

You stood there, your mouth hanging open, standing halfway between the outer hallway and your dorm room, with your hand still on its doorknob.

“Who is she?” You looked over to see your dormmate sitting on the edge of his bed, looking over at you inquisitively, your laptop on the other side of the room from him, open and on the desk next to your bed. Your spy video from back home playing on it. Your dad smacking your mom’s ass with his right hand as he thrusted into her.

Your face burned a scalding red.

“I think it’s his sister.”

Your dormmate’s mouth didn’t move when that was said. Your stomach dropped.

You pushed the door open further, and there, obscured by it initially, sitting on the bed with a humorous look to his mouth, was your dormmate’s friend, Randy. “Is it? Your sister, I mean. She looks like you.”

You felt a sudden nausea come over you. You wanted to retreat back into the hall, but you didn’t want to leave them with your laptop, especially knowing now that they weren’t above looking through it. Instead, you just stepped inside. You closed the door behind yourself quickly and rushed over to your computer. You slammed its monitor shut.

“We could hear fucking sounds,” your dormmate said. “Me and Lisa, so I opened it to see. I’m going to have to fuck her in a hotel from here on out. I tried convincing her that it was just internet porn, but at the end of the clip, you came into the washroom and grabbed the camera.”

You felt like your face would melt from the shame. You knew the exact moment he was talking about. Your face, tense and wide-eyed as you came back to collect the camera with a glimmer of hope in the deepest recess of your eye, praying to a fatherly god that you had caught something in that little staring lens.

“You didn’t film me and Lisa fucking, did you?”

You shook your head quickly and truthfully, embarrassed to even have to answer that.

“The guy in the video was old…” Randy said thoughtfully, as if it were an important clue for understanding. He looked over at your dormmate thoughtfully, and then he looked over at you.

Your eyes met, yours stunned, his narrow. You looked away quickly.

He kept his eyes on you, the two of them still narrowing as the gears his head turned.

Their bodies sat next to each other, their size and their weight, terrifying you. Both of them being gym bros, their jaws and heads square. Their hands big. Their natures comfortable. Their probing direct. The logic behind their questions flawless.

“I knew you must have had something,” said your dormmate. “I’ve never seen you go out and try to get pussy once. I guess this little hobby is enough to tide you over then.”

“Well, did you see that ass? Of course it is,” said Randy, motioning to the shut laptop, slapping noises, grunting, and moaning still spiling out of it. He looked up at you. “Send me that shit. Please.”

You weren’t moving, but you weren’t truly still until Randy’s request just then.

“She looks like that one girl you’re with,” your dormmate said to Randy.

“No,” Randy said. “They look completely different.”

“In the ass, I mean.”

Randy thought about it for a second, staring at the screen. “Maybe…”

Your dormmate nodded his head and looked around. Then his eyes shot up. “Hey, am I going to have to offer up some footage of Lisa then, since you’ve both given me a little something?”

You had no idea what else, beyond the footage of your mom, he was referring to. What was Randy giving him?

“Yeah, that’s it,” said Randy, pointing at the laptop with an arm stretched forward confidently. He looked up at you. “How about this? You send me that and I’ll send you mine?”

You looked back at him, your blood running cold at the thought of dispensing with your control over your mom’s nude image, giving it over to the urges and hormones of another man; your dad’s naked masculinity going along with his, being engulfed within it. Your parents’ marriage a shiny plaything for the cat’s paw of his arousal.

“You can ask your dormmate here, it’s good stuff.”

“Oh god, it is!”

“If you’re an ass man. It’s almost… almost as good as what you have there.”

The sounds of your dad grunting spilled out of the device, and you could imagine the moment it signified without looking at the screen, his hips thrusting in circular attacks against your moms wet and welcoming cheeks.

“…almost.” he repeated.

“He’s thinking about it…” your dormmate said with his squinting eyes on your expression.

“Here,” Randy said. He stood up and headed to your laptop. You wanted to protest, to jump in the way, but his size, and his shape, and the nature of his movement, confident and self-assured, stopped you from putting up a fight. You instead just stepped aside, almost out of instinct.

He opened up the lid, and even as footage of your mom’s face in absolute ecstasy as your dad grunted his way inside of her played, he minimized the video, he opened up your email. “It’s open,” he said, gratefully. And then he composed a message. He put himself as the recipient, attached the file, even as it played its glorious sound, he put “don’t forget to send yours” in the subject line as a note to himself. He wrote nothing in the body.

You said nothing, only feeling your nerves rising as you watched.

He hit send.

It was done. If you were going to ever object, the moment had passed.

You felt a shame begin to rise in you.

“You’re in for a treat,” your dormmate said.

You looked at him, seeing a joy in his eyes, surprised by its genuineness.

“I have to go now. You should get something by tonight.”

He minimized the internet and then got up.

As your dormmate had small-talk with him at the front door, you only stared at the screen of your laptop, the video playing. Your mom’s thighs lifted in the air by masculine hands, her whole being suspended, with her feet hanging, pointing downward, toward the bathtub floor. Her body rippling all over with each thrust.

Her eyes were shut, in ecstasy, blind.


You walked around the campus with your own two feet, but you felt almost as if you were adrift through raging water, being thrust around at its mercy.

The sun was golden and low to the ground. The world carried its flame because of it, breathing it into its mystical lungs, and exhaling into the awareness of all who paid attention.

To you, it was just another visualization of the apocalypse happening within your soul. The world had been full of it since earlier today.

You thought about your mother. Her body. Her femininity. Her smile. Her life. Her occupation. Her every pair of shoes and sandals. Her toothbrush. Her favorite book and favorite television show. All of it, that which made her who she was.

At the same time, her body sat within the ether of cyberspace, ready to be snatched from it, and kept, like any other heirloom, within the hard-drive and memory of a certified baboon, completely manipulable by his rough, half-articulated fingers, start, stopping, rewinding, skipping, and slowing down to fractions of the world’s actual speed, done so to relish her every moment beyond even her ability to do so herself, knowing her body in a way that even she could not.

It had only been four days since you had filled out the form for your Gender Studies major. You had felt so proud then, grinning uncharacteristically at the girl at the desk of Student Services as you slid the form to her, flat.

She smiled at seeing your major. “Women and Gender Studies, hey?” she asked, checking off portions of your sheet with her pen.

You looked down at her big, exposed cleavage jiggling as she did.

Your mom was like an empty dress, taken by the violent current, a victim to its whims. That current, in the metaphor you played with now, was patriarchy. Or rape culture. Or the male gaze. Any of them. They all fit. And like a current, they all twisted her about into shapes she’d never want, as she was dragged down the motion of their pull and sucking desire, toward the jagged rocks of their ultimate series of whims.

All women had been the victim of these forces. You had known this wordlessly for as long as you could remember, at least since puberty. You knew it most viscerally when looking at the quarterback on your school’s football team holding your crush, the head cheerleader, close to him next to the bleachers, kissing her on the back of her blonde head. You knew it when you seen the cute goth girl get into the car with the older metal head, who screeched off down the street listening to Battery by Metallica, her body and lips about to be subject to who-knows-what black rituals of the body and breath. You knew this as the awkward Asian girl, the one who drew anime characters as cute as buttons in the margins of all her classroom notes, ended up with the tallest guy in school, becoming his little pin cushion and glutton for punishment. You saw women, day in, day out, flock to the men who were the coolest, the best looking, the most popular, the strongest, the most daring, the most charismatic, and the most shamelessly bold. You knew it most of all when the girl you had known from church, the one who used to catch you gazing at her from across the room and would smile with appreciation at the attention, was discovered by you as she jerked off your brother in the closet of the church basement. “Yo bro,” he said. “Fuck off.” Even at that vulgar ejection of expletives at his own shocked brother, she didn’t even slow her rhythm. She just kept tugging, looking up at you, then back down at your brother’s cock. Your brother’s cock, bigger than yours, throbbed within her dainty hand, the flesh of his scrotum, hairy and bare, being pulled vaguely up and down within the closet’s shadow, settling and resettling his balls with each jerk.

You knew it most of all when the most exciting thing you had ever done, placing that camera in the bathroom just before you knew your mom was about to enter it, was ruined by your dad coming in mid-video and reminding you inadvertently of that which you might never enjoy. At least not in this society, with its dog-eat-dog displays of manhood and competition, muscles and grit-teeth, throwing, and catching, and shoving, and spitting. It seemed like a woman’s body was off-limits to anyone who didn’t conform to the narrow hall of this tunnel and toward the blinding light of hyper-masculinity it offered at its end, a light which women seemed to flock toward like cattle.

It seemed like female flesh was designated long ago, by whichever sick council of elders dreamed up patriarchy and all its notions, as never being meant for you. You still had the first half of that video though. Your mom and her body, more feminine than almost all of them. You had that all to yourself.

Or you did. Now even that was ruined.

Beautiful young women passed by you on every side. Books in their hands, accoutrements in their hair. The sun glimmered off them, highlighting them as the gold of the world, its most prized treasure, hiding in plain sight. And still, despite their volume and their availability for speech and conversation, you would never know their touch. You would never know their souls. You would never know their love. And worst of all, you would never know their nudity (the color of their nipples or the length of the line between their butt-cheeks). Never mind the sweetness that they held between their legs, guarding it with all the strength their thighs could muster.

But as the sun touched the rim of the earth, you remembered something important.

You were in Women and Gender Studies now. You were making a vested effort in understanding the plight of women, and at understanding the system around you, the patriarchy, which deprived women of maximal happiness and potential and which deprived you of female touch and admiration. And that would count for something. It had to.

The image of Joanne looking back at you, smiling that sweet smile, flashed back in your mind, only to be replaced by the real image before you: the dipping orange sun.

You turned from the beautiful sight and headed back to your dorm with a kernel of hope within. Besides what was there to be upset about? Randy should be back at his dorm room now. You had a new video to watch when you got back. Now you would have two videos to enjoy.


Your dormmate was gone, probably with Lisa somewhere else in an unnecessary attempt to shelter her nudity from you and the camera she imagined you had stashed running somewhere in that room. He was enjoying her body in its most private, intimate, and immaculate way, thrusting into it disgustingly, with vulgar grunting and the faces only made by neanderthals and orcs (what did women see in men?). As much as you would have liked to see that ass in its nude privacy, admiring its intricacies and the beauty of its dimples and imperfections (it took a sweet man to know that imperfections were where the real beauty resided in a woman), you had no interest in seeing it as it was taken by the gyrating body of a disgusting, hairy brute.

You had butterflies circling within your stomach as you sat down at your meagre desk. Your laptop was ready. You had shut it off this time. Wisely. And the only way to get into it was to know the password: “hearmeroar123.”

The image of a picket line of proud female faces, shouting in a heroic unison, defending some right or other (you had found the photo on pinterest) sat as your login screen background. You typed in your password.

The background was pulled downward and out of view. It was replaced by a collage of half-naked women in sultry poses, with faces beckoned and teased out of them by eager male photographers.

You opened up your firefox browser, and you were surprised to see that the session it restored caused the gif from the story Cheek Fever to pop up immediately on your screen. You felt a sudden jolt of terror, as if someone else were in the room with you, and then you reprimanded yourself internally for shutting down firefox while on the bluvelvet99 tab, ensuring that that guilty pleasure of yours would be the first thing to pop-up when reopening the browser. You had promised yourself you wouldn’t make that mistake again after it had almost lead to a close call in class once (in Dr. Kramer’s class no less).

“Mmm,” you hummed to yourself as you watched the gif of Jada Stevens’ ass being ravaged while she lay passed out. “That was a good one,” you said, and then you clicked to the next tab. It was a petition to push the University’s Board of Arts Commission to prioritize funding the works of up-and-coming female directors. You then clicked over on a blank tab and it opened a video that a voyeur took of his own coworker bathing in his house, unaware that she was being filmed. You forgot if you had downloaded the video already, so you clicked download just to be sure, and you then you clicked on the next tab. The next thing that came up was an AP article about women who were taken as sex slaves by a radical organization in Liberia. You burned with a fiery rage, still only barely dulled with time, as the headline flashed into your awareness again.

“Men,” you said, grimacing at the article’s title. “Fucking animals.”

You then clicked the next tab, and your email came up.

Sure enough, you had a new message.


You grimaced “Of course that’s his e-mail,” you mumbled. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Your aggravation gave way to a rising excitement as you saw the video file linked below, and you wondered at the possibility, however remote, that you had seen the girl involved somewhere, and some time, on campus.

“Enjoy this dumb bitch,” his message above read. You had somehow found a way to tune that out, or at least to numb your emotions to it.

You clicked on the video.

It took a while for the empty bed of the dorm to finally fill with two bodies.

Randy was the first to become recognizable. He was nude but for his underwear, and you mused at how ridiculous it was that he seemed to feel no shame sending out his nudity to you like this. His body was grotesque. Not in the way that it was unhealthy or pale or overweight. Quite the opposite. His definition came through. His thighs were thick. He had something approaching a six-pack, at least for seconds at a time, when the light hit him just right. He had everything that disturbed you about the male body, all the things you held off of working-out for because you feared you’d end up looking like that.

The woman came into view, her underwear hugging her ass. Your jaw dropped. He was right. She wasn’t quite as shapely and peach-like as your mother, very few were, but she was close as most women could ever hope to get.

Her dark hair hung down all the way to the small of her back. Her face had yet to make itself visible to you. But Randy’s face was, and he grinned as she grabbed the waist of his underwear. She began to pull down, and just as his hard dick snapped out from behind the cover of his underpants, he took a subtle glance over at the camera. He seemed to note for a moment that it was as well hidden as he thought it would be.

She then pushed him onto the bed, and, shockingly, began to bend down, mounting the mattress, depressing its springs audibly while crawling forward, and then mounting his thighs, and without much coaxing or aggression, she lowered her head like a chicken to feed, and Randy’s throbbing, disgusting cock, its nature as abrasive as his spirit, into her eager mouth.

Randy’s toes curled next to her feet. The size difference between them, and the surface areas of their respective soles, making it seem as if her being was half of his. Randy’s big toe stretched away from the others as he looked over again at his camera. Then he looked back down at the head full of brown hair.

Her face could still barely be made out, but you could see the cock leave her mouth and her tongue eject herself to run along the surface area of his testicles. Its black hairs ran matted against the swollen flesh after her tongue cleared passed them. His masculine fuzziness, as shaggy as the beard on his face, gave you an unease. But you still kept tugging, watching the panty-clad ass bend itself as she leaned further forward to get leverage on the cock she was servicing.

Her apparent eagerness to please this vulgar neanderthal of a man killed any and all regret you had enjoying the full shape of her ass. If she hadn’t realized her gender’s oppression, and just how far it had set her life back by now – and just how much guys like the one she was tasting and swallowing eagerly had contributed to that – by now, then she never would learn. And if she never would, what exactly did you owe her? Not her privacy or her dignity, that was for sure.

He leaned forward and he smacked her ass, then he looked at the camera with a subtle grin, as if he could see you sitting there, enjoying from behind a screen in that moment.

He grabbed at the waist of her panties and began to pull downward. She helped him by scooting forward a bit, and stepping up which each thigh, submissively, puppy-like, so that he could get the panties off.

It cleared her butt-crack and it now sat exposed, between the two butt-cheeks which shone under the light.

The panties cleared her ankles, with her help, and then Randy leaned back, again eyeing the camera, and grabbed each of her butt-cheeks. He leaned to look down at them, and then he pulled them apart.

She seemed to position herself in a way to make it easier for him, doing so with a barely-apparent pride or nervous desire to comply, which came upwards at her from some hidden place within her, primal or pure.

You scoured at it, even as your right eyelid went limp at the sights that neanderthal exposed between her gigantic butt-cheeks. Her asshole and pussy looked back at you, more visible to you than her face was at this point, with a vulgarness that was real and overwhelming, but was saved by the purity of her femininity. She had no idea, only enjoying what she was exposing to Randy, wanting him to see it all and to keep it for himself.

Randy smiled again at the camera.

She then shuffled on her knees.

He took his eyes off the camera nervously.

She leaned up and pushed him down slowly, confidently (or with forced confidence). She then crawled up the length of his body, and at reaching chest to chest, she mounted above him. She grabbed his cock, and, looking down at his grinning face, she pushed it up and into her sacred place. And once it was there, she looked him in his eyes, daringly, and slowly began to lower herself, apparently watching him as he enjoyed every inch of her engulfing every inch of him.

His testicles met her butt-crack, and, not long after, she was riding him.

You watched, your face red with ambivalence, your lips pursed, tugging yourself at the sight of that giant ass riding the lap of such an insufferable buffoon. Her butt-cheeks fell against his thick thighs and you could only wonder at what such a sensation should feel like.

He maintained his practice of pulling apart her butt-cheeks for the camera, but this time her pussy was stuffed, its purity destroyed, by the cylinder of flesh he loved and called his penis. You were gobsmacked at just how much she could enjoy it along with him. As if she were a machine designed to reflect a man’s arrogance back at him, adding to it, multiplying with it, rewarding it and then rewarding what she contributed to it as if it were his own. He sat at the end of that assembly line, receiving all its spoils with that wide-chinned grin, his muscular arms stretched wide.

He looked over again at the camera, then he looked back into her face. He said something to her that was inaudible. She nodded her head, stopped her riding (something which you couldn’t imagine deliberately getting a woman to do mid-gyration) and she began to raise herself off his cock.

When she cleared it, its glistening head falling free, leaning in the day’s light, she got on her knees and put her fingers to the sheets. Then she began to turn herself, poking her ass in his direction already as she did.

Before you could figure out what she was doing (presenting her ass to him so he could take it from behind) you noticed something instead. Something which you didn’t expect. And when you saw it, your jaw dropped along with your stomach.

She was looking back at him, her face now visible to you, and she waited, with patience for his sake but none for her own, as he slowly pressed his disgusting cock into her, waiting for his disgusting pelvis to reach the flesh of her ass so that they could dance this forbidden dance in perfect unison.

Her face was focused behind her, looking at him longingly.

You knew that face.

You tried to deny who it was for a second.

Reality continued to contradict your hopes.

Joanne looked back into Randy’s grinning expression. For a split second, his eyes met the lens of the camera, and met your eyes in turn, and the grin beneath them throbbed through you like old food. A nausea came, but not one which upset your stomach. It was a nausea of the mind, and the world around you seemed to gyrate in place without moving much at all.

Randy looked down at his conquest for the night (his conquest for life). And when his pelvis had met the cheeks of her giant ass, she smiled and turned around, waiting patiently but eagerly for that first thrust.

When it came, one solitary thrust, she giggled to herself in a way that sounded more like a hiccup.

“You liked that,” he said, a statement and not a question.

She giggled again.

He thrust again. Every inch of loose phat on her carried the vibration, from the impact zone on her ass, all the way to the hanging flesh of her breasts and the cheeks on her face.

“How about that one?”

She didn’t giggle this time. She waited, almost gravely, for the next smack, hoping it would be followed by more.

After a moment torturous for her, Randy thrusted again. It smacked, and then, before you could even register it visually, more smacks followed.

You cradled your eyes, and their sore gaze, into the darkness of your palm. The smacking noises, the occasional giggling, and the constant grunts swam around that darkness.

You shifted in your seat, sending your body forward. You opened your eyes, just for long enough to make sure you hadn’t knocked your laptop to the edge of its tiny desk, but it was long enough for you to see the pleasure on her contorting face.

He had his big hairless hand wrapped around her throat, and he held her face next to his, kissing it on her chin, her body rippling without end, its waves her waves of pleasure manifest.

You shut your eyes, and then unable to live with the memory of the image, you opened them to see the image as it moved, its motion being the proof of its reality.

He smacked her ass with his free hand, contributing to the ripples a second wave.

“Oh, fuck me! Fuck me!”

Your jaw fell open. Your cock throbbed and you shut your eyes in pain. The vulgar sting of it, it coming from such a pretty mouth. Her mouth open in dumb-pleasure on either side of the utterance.

“Fuck me hard!” she said. “Fuck my… fucking… fat…. Ass… yeah!”

It came out in hiccups, animalistic. Bare. There was no affectation to it. If anything, she was leaning in the direction of holding back, yet it spilled from her mouth with compulsion, the dam of her lips unable to contain it.

Rape culture is a system of oppression.

You could hear her saying it in your mind, it being carried proudly above the 100 plus heads in the room. Her mouth eager to speak that truth. Eager to show she understood. Eager to show that in understanding, she could overcome.

“Oh…. Yes…. Fuck me! Yes…. Fuck me with that fat dick!”

You pushed your forehead against the bottom-most part of your keyboard, doing it as if you were doubling over in pain. Your eyes were clamped shut. Your leg jittered beneath your desk. You did everything you could to try to shut out the visual, and to try to shut out the sound that came with it. Everything except shut off the video.

You looked up at it again.

Randy thrust harder, as was commanded of him, and he looked again at the camera as if he wanted to make sure it was still there before he did what he was about to do next.

He wound his hand back again, this time to a degree further than any before now, and then he let his giant arm, its tangled knot of muscles, snap forward, his hand struck against her ass at the exact moment when you paused the video.

The vibration which ran through her stood still, its phenomenal pocket of time frozen in place. Randy looked down at his conquest, the tangled nest of brown hair which flowed beautifully over her back, its furthermost strands tickling the uppermost line of her butt-crack, and the expression he wore was one of pure power and control. His hand had a vibration in it itself, the equal and opposite reaction as it bounced off the giant ass he savored before him.

That ass sat there, its shape ecstatic from the impact, waves radiating off it from its center, which was momentarily dimpled by the weight and shape of his palm, branded within a second of time, one which would fade, but one which would never be undone.

Joanne looked ahead, her eyes clasped shut, the blackness between their lids sharing the blackness of her butt-crack. Her mouth open in a vulgarness reminiscent of the vulgarness of her pussy exposed between her spreading butt-cheeks.

You felt a sudden throbbing wave come up from beneath you, its origin a hidden cove or the byproduct of some ancient leviathan miles beneath visible light. Your body began to shudder, your balls tighten, your gooch squeeze.

Just as the first volley of cum ejected upward, you heard the door open behind you.

You kept cumming even as the pair of footsteps coming in stopped.

“I knew it!”

It was a female voice.

“No!” your dormmate said. “I can explain.”

“I’m not fucking in here,” Lisa said.

You continued to cum, volley after volley lessening in its intensity. The image on the screen, Joanne’s look of bliss, Randy’s look of domination, stared back at you.

“It’s not his,” your dormmate said.

“Oh, so it’s porn again…” she responded sarcastically.

“No, its…”

Your cumming was subsiding, its final motions throttling itself through you.

“That’s your friend – what’s his face – fucking a girl. Not a pornstar. If you want to fuck me without this little freak watching, you can pay for a hotel. Otherwise we’re not doing it, I’m not coming around here again.” Her voice was trailing more with each word. “I’m not going to be just jerkoff material on his computer like that….”

“Wait!” your dormmate pleaded with her, his voice also fading with distance.

The door slammed.

You hadn’t even a moment to face your accusers.

You sat there, your thighs and stomach covered in your own warm stickiness. And your mind, covered by the equally sickening muck which dripped out the crevices of your own thoughts.


Part II

The glass of water emptied itself slightly more down your mom’s throat.

“Gender Studies,” your dad said.

She looked at him with her eyes peeking over the ridge of her glass, still gulping back its liquid.

“I don’t get it,” your brother said, taking a sip from his glass of beer. He wiped his lips with the sleeve of his shirt. “I just don’t get it.”

“It’s because you’re not a fa-“ Your dad stopped himself. He looked over at your mom, and then down at his plate and picked at it.

Your mom put her glass down.

“I guess I do get it,” your brother said. He put his fork to his mouth.

“Get it how?” your dad asked, unamused.

“Pussy,” your brother said.

Your mom sat there, unperturbed by the vulgar word, or by the objectifying of her sex. She only lifted the roast beef she had made with her own two hands to her mouth and chewed.

“Pussy?” your dad responded.

“He’s doing it for pussy.” Your brother said it without looking up and without shame.

“Oh,” your dad said. “In that case, he’s a genius then.” He looked around at his wife and son. It seemed that for a moment, the weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

“Uh uh,” your brother said, shaking his head without looking up from the plate he picked at.

“What?” your dad said.

“It’s not a good way to go about it. I mean… there’s lots of it there, in terms of volume or whatever, but…” he chewed more. “What good is the number of them when not a single one is going to see him as a man?”

The worry came back to your dad’s face. “Shit!” he said, as if kneeling to address a flat tire on his firebird. “He’s been having enough problems in that department already.”

You winced.

Your mom looked over your dad, her hands hanging limp from her wrists, her fork in her fingers as she chewed her food. She swallowed and then stabbed down at another piece.

“He’s just…” your brother began. “He’s just not…” He shook his head. “He’s clueless.” He took a sip of his beer. He began speaking again before he even fully got it down. “He doesn’t understand women. They’re like a complete mystery to him.”

Your dad clicked his tongue as he leaned back in his seat.

“And when I tried to tell him this stuff, he’d just shut down. It was like he couldn’t take it. He has his ideas in his head, and he’s not eager to learn, not from me, not from logic, not from experience. He’s…” your brother shook his head again and took in another bite. Then he lifted his glass of beer to his lips and sucked it back.

You watched as the liquid in the glass lowered, bars of shadow and light decorating your face. You stood, your legs aching, your feet, clad in only socks for easier sneaking (you hid your shoes in a bush out back). You were motionless, as if standing atop a lotus-leaf. As far as your family knew, you were still halfway across the country in study hall or laying in bed in your dorm room. If they were to open this closet for any reason, you’d have no excuse as to why you were currently standing in it, watching them eat during a private conversation about no one other than yourself.

Your mom took another sip from her drink, and as you watched it go down her throat, your cock throbbed (you were in there naked but for your socks, not having enough time to put your clothes back on before fleeing when you saw them pulling up in the driveway). She put her glass back down. It sat there, empty but for a thin puddle of water at its base. Your dad and brother’s drinks were in a similar state.

Your mom’s ass all but fell of the edges of her chair, doing so in a way that you had missed. If anything, the fat of her ass seemed to only have grown since the past 8 months. It was the first thing you looked for when she walked in the house, pressing your eager eyes against the slats within the closet to find out. When you saw her butt jiggling as she came in, nostalgia and sweet, sweet arousal flooded through you violently, but not unwelcomed.

You had watched her earlier, silently from within shadow as she slaved over the oven, preparing dinner. All while your dad and brother screamed and grunted amongst each other in the living room, watching the football game. “I always knew that Antonio was a woman. First round draft my ass!”

“I could tell it by the way he talked,” your brother said. “Soft. And how he cried when he talked about his mom.”

Your mom only mashed the potatoes, her expression flat, no evidence of concern regarding anything that was being said in her very own living room, even as she prepared food tirelessly for the two men who said it.

She sat now at the table, enjoying that food herself, looking back and forth between her own husband and her son neutrally.

“He’s got to realize,” your brother started, referring to you. “That women are not these mythical creatures. They’re not like unicorns. Just because they get you hard, it doesn’t mean they’re magic. They’re like us, no better, no worse. Some are good people, some pieces of shit. Some can be reasoned with, some can’t. Maybe most of them can’t, at least not if you’re only trying to make sense with them all the time.” He lifted his beer to his lips, finishing off the glass. “The one thing that’s true about all of them though, and this shouldn’t be a controversy, is that what they want is a man. Not some sensitive whiny bullshit about how they’re this, or they’re that. Not somebody who cries over nothing or who’s afraid of his own shadow. They want a man. Somebody who will protect them. Somebody who scares them a little…. You know…. but who they know has his heart in the right place. This should all be common sense. The fact that I have to even say it…”

Your mom lifted her glass to her lips and downed it.

You watched her, your teeth gritting behind your own lips as she looked back down at her plate and continued picking at it for scraps, her eyes and mouth flat, as if the conversation were about the weather. She was completely unconcerned with the diatribe being blurted out so carelessly within her presence, the one which demeaned her and shaped her, willing or not, within the shape of her own son’s estimation of her based on nothing more than her chromosomes and the nature of her genitals.

“Amen, brother,” your dad said to his very own son.

Your mom was looking over at your dad as she chewed.

You stood in her closet, ashamed, disgraced, her only defender. The defender of her and her very own biology and the roles of her gender in this society, roles which she seemed to have no real interest (despite what she had said on the phone) in truly challenging, at least not in any meaningful way. If she did, why not start here? The personal was political, and the family was the roots for the tree of society. There was nowhere else where real change could prove more fruitful.

Your dick throbbed looking at the woman you thought you had known better than any other, but whose face was now becoming foreign to you with each round of five chews and a swallow. You imagined what she’d look like naked against that seat, knowing that you didn’t have to try too hard to imagine. You knew her nakedness like the back of your hand, and you knew the dirty things she let that “manly-man” across the table do to her in the privacy of her own bathroom, the one which you and your brother shared with them. The bathroom where she was ruthlessly taken by the same hairy body which “protected” her. “Protected” her while you, the Gender Studies major, who devoted his life and all his mental faculties to understanding the plight of her entire gender, apparently did nothing at all for her, her safety, or her protection. How could you be her protecter? You were only protecting her against the minor inconveniences of life. You know, patriarchy, the male gaze, rape, and other minor inconveniences of that sort. Why would a woman want protection against that?

The absurdity of it was offensive, rage-inducing even, and you watched as it sat there, in a near-complete nuclear family, in the broad daylight of a suburban afternoon, unchallenged. You were aware that this was how most of the world operated. The only difference between here and rural New Guinea, and between here and Japan, was that in New Guinea they did it in mud hut, and in Japan they did it while sitting on the floor. Other than that, the dynamics were unchanged. And in every case, it was a woman who sat at the head of that table, on one side or the other, just letting it happen. Letting their freedom float passed their blank faces while they chewed their meals like cattle chewed cud.

Your mom’s ass shifted in its seat, her need to settle it comfortably against the flat surface of her chair apparently more pressing than the need to stick up for herself, or to stick up for the son who was sticking up for her in her place.

Your dad took his final sip of beer, sitting there, chewing, comfortable in his life, and all the assumptions which undergirded it. His wife across the table from him, with the illusion that her body was only his, that he was the only one who had ever known it naked. Simultaneously, its cheeks played on your dorm mate’s phone as he jerked off to them, soppy and wet, on the other side of the country, the line between them moving in its every nuance, successfully cloned and trapped within his personal corner of the patriarchy, that which wasn’t any worse morally than your father’s, but which shared little in common with his corner in terms of its flavor and tone, it being less ‘mature,’ less ‘polished,’ less ‘official.’ But beyond those surface differences, it was the same ugly little thing. The same cancer which needed to be plucked from the flesh of life and society.

You imagined it, festering, its core hidden and dark, only to be exposed to the probing light once pulled apart by giant hands. It, being patriarchy, completely unaware that it was being exposed to begin with. It whimpering and giggling, mistaking its exposing as a form of play, even as its brunette strands of hair spilled past its giant cheeks and tickled at the hidden sore spot in front of everyone who was there to witness it.

Your mom yawned.

Your eyes shot over to her. She leaned forward, as if leaning into the yawn itself, and you watched as her body gesticulated and squeezed itself within the various nooks and crannies of her clothing, the same clothing which kept it all in, and did it all with a velvet glove.

Your dad and brother looked over at her, realizing that the yawn was contagious. Their eyes had rings beneath them, Randy told you that would be the sign it was working. The fact that your mom’s eyes seemed as pristine as usual gave you pause, but the fact that she kept yawning into her tiny fist and stretching in her seat caused you to muse whether or not the rings had anything to do with dehydration, and how that would interact with beer versus with water on the person drugged.

You were soon to realize that you had nothing to worry about, just at the same moment your dad and brother realized the opposite.

Your mom, as if a taut string which extended from her back up beyond a notch in the roof had been cut, fell directly flat against the table, knocking her fork off her plate and to the ground with a delectable clump of roast beef stuck by its prongs.

Your brother, with the reaction time of a young man, shot up first.

Your dad put his palms to the table and came up afterward. “Honey!” he screamed.

He rounded the table, repeating that phrase, his eyes wide, his motions frantic, all while his son mirrored his busy motion, or acted as its shadow or echo, moving toward your mom, with his hands jumping over the other as he went to stabilize himself along the table he used for travel. “Mom!” he screamed.

As your mom lay there, her eyes clasped tight, opening slightly at the calling of her carnal and familial title, the roles taped to her back by patriarchy’s rough hairy hand, your dad grabbed her by her shoulder with his rough hairy hands and shook her.

“Baby!” he screamed. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong? Please tell me! What’s happening?”

Your mom didn’t answer.

You watched her flesh shake within her seat. The cascading bars of light and shadow crawled up the height of your forming grin.

Your dad rocked her shoulder while glaring frantically down into her face. Her ass jiggled with each push and pull of her unmoving body.

Their worry for your mom, a female, was so primal, intense, and palpable that some part of you thought that they would become born again feminists this very moment and would see the error in their ways and their opinions and drop those opinions like the baggage you knew them to be. But you knew that was a dream. You knew that they feared for her, not as a human being, not even as a wife or mother, but as a caretaker, as a cook, and as an object of sexual gratification.

“Call emergency,” your dad cried to your brother, pushing against the table with his left hand, as his right rested on your mother’s shoulder. “Call emergency! Oh god!”

And as you celebrated his much-deserved pain, its intensity being unfounded, born from ignorance and hysterical speculation, you watched your mom’s body, taking in its every motion in sleep, as it was jostled around by his large, hairy hand.

Your brother jumped back, as if trying to catch a throw, and just as he was about to turn and follow through with the momentum toward the living room land line, he fell to the ground, disappearing behind the table as if dropping out of existence itself.

Your dad gasped, and then he leaned forward, looking over the table. He called your brother’s name. No response. He called it again, his breathing all but stopped. Then he let his hand fall off your mother’s back in preparation to round the table, and just as he did, he fell against her, causing her ass to receive the shockwave and jiggle in her seat. His chest rested against her back and the back of her head for a second, before falling to the ground in a giant, heavy thud.

You stood there, looking at the Norman Rockwell painting you had just whipped up with a single color, that being everyone’s favorite: blue.

Your grin widened, its line snaking through the shadow and light, making itself visible across many elevations. Your hard cock throbbed within the shadow.

Your dad, brother, and mom lay there, without moving. Without thinking. And without worry.

You pushed open the closet door.

Randy kneeled in the bushes, looking up at the window. It had been a while. He was waiting for the signal. The blinds sat up above. He waited for them to blink with his cock hard. He had been massaging his dick through his shorts as he kneeled there, hearing cars move past, knowing that none of the drivers could see him from where he kneeled, but fearing they would regardless, as if his rascally intentions would crawl upwards in the dead air like smoke.

This hadn’t been the first time he had kneeled in a family’s bushes while stroking himself. When he was much younger, him and a friend ducked within a bush, waiting with mounting anticipation for the door to open within their mutual friend’s parents’ bedroom.

They had been waiting there for hours before the moment when they saw his mom come into her room, holding a towel, and enter the bathroom, and they had waited for minutes, which felt like hours, for her to come back out again.

Their friend’s mom came out of the shower, towel wrapped around her body and head, secure in herself, secure in her body, and secure in her privacy, all while the two boys looked in at her, their eyes wild, their intentions worse, extending Randy’s phone outward, ready for that legendary moment.

She whistled as she looked at herself in the mirror, judging herself by a standard set through male eyes and imagination, and then, with a motion unceremonious and plain (she had done it a million times in her life), she dropped her towel.

The moment was caught on the phone’s memory and would exist forever more.

The two boys, just through sheer aggressive rapscallionism, had documented as woman, exposed her, and emasculated her son all in one moment. They did it through their own volition, or at least they thought so, but the very spirit of patriarchy, its presence heavy in the air, smiled in the wind and breeze which passed over them and their sweating flesh as they did.

That very morning, their friend’s mom went, now fully dressed, to the church to play the organ underneath the symbol of a male god. Her eager effort and focus not allowing her, not even for a moment, the room to entertain the idea that the God of the universe could be a She. The Virgin Mary kneeled praying in a nearby relief, Joseph nowhere to be seen. Joseph, the first male feminist, and a disgraced cuckold because of it. It was with us since the beginning, even after the son of God was born. It had to be a son. Society wouldn’t have accepted a daughter. She would have been crucified twice. Or crucified sooner. Or crucified without a single sheep in her flock, dying alone above the rock-hard earth, her name lost among the dried bones and broken columns which littered unmemorialized antiquity.

Randy sat in the pew, beneath the stained glass image of the Virgin Mary, a child of the seed planted within him by the very pulpit of this church. He watched that ass on the organ bench, grinning as it bobbed in place from side to side, expanding and squeezing as the weight of her center mass shifted above each cheek. He was excited to show the other boys at the church what lay below the skirt of that very dress.

That same Randy sat now below your window, a sweating, breathing hunk of irritated flesh.

He was waiting, waiting for those blinds at the window’s top to move.

As he waited, he began to get impatient. More than that, he began to get nervous. He looked down at his little case, the one he didn’t want to bring, but which you almost demanded he should. He looked back up at the window. He thought he saw the blinds move a little.

He let go of his cock so he could crawl forward, and when he got to the window, he slowly peeked his head up to look inside.

He could see the kitchen immediately and see your brother laying on his back on the floor, with your father laying on the other side of the table, with his body facing downward.

There was no woman in the picture.


He flew back into the twigs and brambles of the bush.

A giant beige object, having just slapped against the window, stared down at him. It was a giant wall of shifting softness, like something out of science fiction.

He grunted and immediately regretted grunting.

Down in the grass and foliage, he collected himself enough to look back up.

Facing him, pressed against the glass of the window, was a giant naked ass, its cheeks, and the lines between them, smushed out of natural position, with a pussy beneath and in between them staring back at him like some form of unique lifeform which survived based on eating but not on thought or oxygen.

The ass was suddenly pulled away, it puckering with suction as it lost contact with the window, so much so that Randy was sure he could hear it from the other side.

A frail male hand, bony and shapeless but of the same general hue, replaced it. It waved him toward the direction of the front door.

When Randy stood up in that front yard, trying to make himself look like he belonged there as he rubbed his palms against the thighs of his jeans, he didn’t do so with the thought in his mind that he was a rapist, or a rapist in the making. He did so with butterflies and jitters, none too different that what he felt when he first slept with a girl as a teenager. To him, this moment, which became more real to him as he mounted the steps of the house, was just another rite of passage on the path to becoming a man, and he looked up at the door which marked that threshold to that rite the way one looked up to the priest when receiving communion.

That’s what this was.

Except this time, it would be your mom who was receiving flesh in her mouth.

When he came inside, you were standing over your mom, looking down at her with frustration and perplexity. “Look what she wears for him,” you said, your finger folded into hook-shape. “Pink fishnets.” You plucked at the fishnet as if it were a guitar string.

Your mom’s ass, jiggling after the single line of fishnet slapped her on her left cheek, was bent over the backrest of the couch, stared back at Randy, now unimpeded by glass.

“It looks better in person,” he said. He wiped his hands on his jeans. “Which is saying a lot.”

“Here,” you said. “An asshole for an asshole.” You grabbed the cheeks of her ass, and you pulled them apart.

He let a little cough of exhaled air escape his throat, as if admiring a great pass up the field. “I never thought I’d get to see it up-close.”

You looked down into your mom’s open ass, her butthole peeking up at you. “I can’t wait to see Joanne’s in person,” you said.

“You will. A deal’s a deal.”

You smiled down at the asshole as if it would smile back up at you. “It pays,” you said to yourself softly.

“What does?”

You didn’t reply.

As he began to remove his pants, you went to the kitchen, first dragging your father out into the living room, and as Randy removed his underwear, you did the same for your brother. Then he helped you lift both up onto the opposite couch.

“Help me remove their pants,” you said.

He was reluctant, but your lack of pause at his pause made him feel weirder for not playing along more than anything else.

As your brother’s cock came out first, you looked at both it and Randy’s simultaneously. Both cocks were hard, but with Randy’s just taking the cake by a half-inch. Then with your dad you did the same, and you couldn’t contain your smile at seeing that he had the smallest cock of everyone there. You grabbed it and you jerked it a bit just to make sure, not accepting immediately that it might have only looked bigger on video, but Randy, probably wanting you to stop it as soon as possible, told you that the blue should make anyone who takes it as hard as they can possibly get already. “No need to jerkoff your dad to make it bigger,” he said, not believing that that was a sentence which naturally came out of his mouth.

An air of satisfaction came over you and you let go of your dad’s cock so that it could fall against his hip.

It wasn’t an unattractive cock, nor was it embarrassingly small. Just the smallest in the room. And that was everything to you.

You were the last to remove your pants, and when you did, you sat between your dad and brother, leaning back with your cock in hand, ready to watch the show.

Patriarchy’s ghost, its howling lifespan long and impervious to ruin, howled through your mom’s movements, which seemed to come natural to her after just a few slaps to the cheek. Randy said “see, this is always how it works” without any understanding of what that implied. That women as a species had been so dominated underneath the hairy male foot that they had become nothing but pleasure for men at their most automatic and primal.

Case in point, he positioned your mom’s pretty blonde head over the throbbing head of his cock.

Here’s how she responded:

Your mom sucked at his throbbing masculinity, and you watched, overcome with an arousal beyond anything you knew was possible. Your father and brother’s hairy thighs pressed against your own from both sides, and you jerked off as you admired the apparent softness of your mom’s body in comparison to the coarseness of theirs, your own, or Randy’s.

“A man,” you said, looking over at your brother’s sleeping face. “Isn’t that what you said women needed?” He opened his eyes slightly and lifted his brow as if he could understand. Then his face went dead again. “That’s the thing you wanted to tell me? The thing I wouldn’t accept?”

Randy was done with your mom’s mouth servicing him, likely because the rest of her was just too appetizing to allow for any more anticipation and foreplay. He wanted much more, and he grabbed her hips and tried to lift her to a position that was preferable to him. Before he could finish, she began doing his work for him, still doing it awkwardly, mechanically. Like clockwork, yet it was this same automation of movement which forced him to put up a defiant and correcting palm…

…setting her back on the right track, making her what she needed to be for him, and doing so with manual manipulations.

Randy grinned.

The look on your mom’s face was neutral, completely unaware of the problematic nature of the way he prodded her around, making the contortions of her body the domain of his desire rather than her own, as if her own were secondary.

You looked over at your dad. “I guess this is the root of what mom is really into then. A man. A man’s man. Not necessarily you. You’re just the one she ended up with. It could just have easily been Randy. Look.” You motioned up ahead as if you father could see it. “Look how natural they look together. It was like she was meant to do this for him. He’s more of a man than you are, after all.” You looked down at his meagre penis.

Her giant ass, looking much bigger in person than it did on video, was lowered against and onto Randy’s welcoming cock.

All it took was a single slap from his firm-but-hairless-and-uncalloused hand for her to start riding.

“Oh god!” Randy said, his voice quivering. “She is a natural. She rides like a champ.”

“Like a champ,” you repeated, looking back and forth between your dad and brother. “Did you hear that? She’s a champion. A champion of riding dick. What else is a woman good for, right? Cooking. Making babies. Riding dick.”

You grinned. Months worth of lectures, guest lectures, and textbook pages had prepared you for this, these rhetorical flourishes which spilled naturally from your mouth the same way they spilled forth naturally onto your every essay and test. Even still, you could only peak at a B+, an A- and above being only possible for the woman who suffered that which your gender forced upon them. “No matter how insightful you become, and how well you hoist our flag with us, you’ll never understand what it’s like to suffer what a woman does every day of her life.” That was Dr. Kremer’s written explanation as to why your GPA had to be capped like that before you even started. But if anything, that handicap only forced you into being a stronger ally.

You tugged yourself passionately, watching your mom’s ass ride Randy’s cock. Her giant soft cheeks rode above that living avatar for patriarchy, and rape culture, and the male gaze, and all of it. His face above, high cheekboned and square jawed, grinning.

It felt good watching everything reach its natural end. Its conclusion at that long and distant train of logical connective tissue and necessity.

You felt like your mind had been expanded within the last few months to the size of your mom’s butt cheeks. In a way, it was fitting that her ass seemed to have grown larger in that same period of time, and, possibly, that your dad’s cock had only shrank.

You remembered learning about it in class, and not quite understanding it, the Hegelian dialectic. Not understanding right away how opposites coming into contact with one another could lead to evolution, improvement, clarity, and truth.

As the months passed within that classroom, and examples came to you by the natural progression of life outside of it, you felt you had begun to grasp it just a little more. But even with all that given knowledge, it wasn’t until this very moment, through learning by experience, that you truly understood the concept.

The room you sat in, jerking off furiously within it, was the Patriarchy’s playroom, its very machinations manifesting themselves as clearly as they ever would right before you. Your mom and Randy were its dolls to play house with, their uniforms and clothing sets hastily thrown aside. At the same time, you were now making the greatest feminist statement any feminist, even the female ones (who earned twice your grade with only half as much effort) had ever made.

And what that meant, in true Hegelian contradiction, was that your mom was now not only being raped right before you, but she was being freed with each thrust as well, the depth of her indignity being the height of her own triumph. You had made it so that one necessarily meant the other, and the finality of one meant the completeness of both, as much of a oneness as her two opposing cheeks coming together as a single and unbroken ass, the crack between them being only evidence of that perfect union.

She was an object and a person. A mother and a whore. The future and the past. Dominator and dominated. Liberated and slave.

This was the first year of your major, and you had already discovered what your thesis would be about. You were living it. Your only job now was to find a way to articulate it through the mediums and forms of academia and non-criminal society.

You chuckled audibly, catching yourself mid exhalation, as he ripped your mom’s fishnets off the enormity of her ass. You looked at your dad, smiling into his shut-eyed face. “I’d explain the metaphor to you,” you said. “If I thought you could understand it.”

You looked down at your dad’s cock, measly and pale. You looked back at your mom, at the cock which disappeared in, and reappeared from, within her, its size dwarfing your father’s considerably. “Oh,” you said. “He’s getting in deep, isn’t he? He has to be getting in much deeper than you ever have.” You looked back at your dad with a grin. “He must be… at least thirty percent more man than you. How could you possibly lay claim to that ass, it being so big and wide, with a cock that small? Can’t you see you’re not man enough for it? What did mom see in you? Doesn’t she see…” you leaned forward, your lips just inches from his face as you spoke with building angst. “…that you’re nothing but a fa-“ you stopped. Your scowl, inches from his cheek, formed naturally into a wide grin. You turned to your brother to get his opinion. “Doesn’t she?”

“All three of us are weak, womanly beta males. At least compared to Randy here. Look at our small dicks. Look at our meagre muscle mass, dad’s small dick and your weak chin. Twenty-thousand years ago, none of us would even exist. We’d have been removed from the gene pool back in caveman days. By predators. By disease. Even by the clubs of other cavemen. We’re an evolutionary dead end. Mom on the other hand…”

“Mom would have been hanging off the shoulder of a chief. Maybe his favorite of four brides. She’d definitely be his top choice, first or second. Well… if the tribe has 150 members or so, half of them female, a third of them in that attractive age range, mom would almost definitely have to be the cream of the crop. I mean, after killing the most antelopes, or taking the most heads off the soldiers of the enemy tribe, the chief would have produced beautiful daughters, and strong sons, with her. Not pussies like me and you, right brother? Real men, who could attract a woman without the custom of monogamy making it easier on… you know… us betas.”

You laughed again, and when you did, you had trouble stopping. But when you found your composure, you continued:

“That is if her tribe was man enough to defend her from the neighboring tribe. Maybe those guys were the bigger, better, badder men. Maybe they’d come in, steamroll everybody, kill everybody in their path, all of her defenders, her simps. All of ‘em getting cut down by run-of-the-mill spear thrusts, until the women of the tribe were just a huddled naked mass on the place where the nightly fire was lit. In that case, the real man, the alphas, would be taking her right there, forcing her to take it. Raping her. Now what’s more manly than that? Right dad? Right brother? I mean, rape is totally cool, right? After all, that’s what feminists are against, and you’re against feminism. I mean, it doesn’t take much imagination to figure out where your sympathies lie then, does it? You’re men, right? You’re supposed to be good at math. You must be pretty happy about what’s happening to mom now, then. After all, with an ass like that, she must certainly be asking for it.”

“Or…”you considered, still tugging. “Maybe it’s not her ass that has her asking for it, but that tiny brain up in her pretty head. The one that lets you two just badmouth feminism in front of her. I guess for her, not being raped just wasn’t important enough. That must be why she was attracted to you, dad. And brother, brother, brother… that must be why she’s always understood you more. She understands the language of the rapist and the misogynist and the creep and the chauvinist. After all, her mother, her grandmother, her great great grandmother, and so on, have spent their entire run going for exactly that type of guy. Just like they all do. Guys like you two. Guy like Randy. While guys like me sit alone, doing nothing on Saturday nights, except for studying about the plights of women in our beds in hope of getting a B+, and only getting it if we don’t accidentally use the wrong word in our selfless defense of the gender that rejects us. A B+ and a cock raw from tugging it all night, every night.”

Your lips had curled up, starting at mock disgust and ending up at the real thing, as your diatribe had went on, only for you to become aware of that building bitterness near its end. You stopped speaking, allowing some degree of serenity to come back to you. Your mom’s ass rippling over Randy’s cock helped in that regard. “I guess you two understand what it’s like for me a little better now. Or… you would understand if you could see what’s happening now.”

You sat there, your head shaking as you jerked yourself off, sighing.

“And mom,” you said, looking at her jiggling ass and the side of her face. “If you were awake now, you’d see the danger in the men that you’re attracted to. You probably overlooked the sweet guys like me all your life. But this is what the cool guys, the ‘men,’ are really like underneath. They’re rapists. They’re predators. This is what you’ve always been asking for. Now you got it. I’m sorry I had to give it to you. But you were asking loudly enough with your silence back there at that kitchen table. ‘Rape me, rape me, rape me.’ You were saying it with your shallow, flat expression. My only crime? Telling you you deserved better. Deserved better than a quickie in the shower.” You pointed at your father. “Deserved better than jocks with their big, sweaty biceps and their swearing and their anger and their sports. You deserved a nice guy. A kind man. An ally.”

“I’m going to cum,” Randy proclaimed, his voice rising with the flushed discoloration on his cheeks.

“On her ass,” you said, leaning forward, your voice shaking. “Coat that ass in cum.”

“Mmm,” he hummed, and he pulled his cock out of her. You watched, leaning forward in direct correlation to your interest in the sight at hand.

The first volley shot out, landing up the length of her butt-crack, some of it touching at the crack’s topmost end. A warm line of it dripped down, falling down the center of her butt-crack as the path of least resistant, the hills on either side of that ditch moving upward with the elevation of mountains. It dripped down to her pussy, and then a little drop of it fell silently to the couch cushion below. More spurts ejected out, splashing her ass with wide diagonals, most of them over her left cheek. Each ejection was copious, but all together they had no hope of achieving the mass necessary to cover even a third of even one cheek.

“What a slut,” you said. “I might as well add slut-shaming to my repertoire of dirty man behaviors.”

“Yeah,” Randy said, sweating, pushing your mom’s ass and thighs off himself. “I used that whore up. Before she hit the wall too.”

“You hear that, mom? That’s how they talk about you. Men. Not that I should have to tell you. Dumb and Dumber here say it all right in front of your face.”

“Definitely beats Joanne’s ass,” said Randy, standing up and off to the side to admire her, doing so as if he hadn’t just fucked her himself.

“She beats everyone,” you said proudly. “It’s the one good thing about her.”

Randy looked down at you, then he went over to his pants and underwear. He leaned down and grabbed them and began to put them on.

Your mom stared back at you, her face serene. You turned to look at Randy. “Where did you put the needle?” you asked.

He had an expression of sudden concern. “It’s in the bush outside, why?”

“You sure this is a good idea?”

He asked it well after he should have. The needle was already buzzing, and Stupid Whor- had already been tattooed to her forehead in writing that you self-consciously tried to make look like somebody else’s. “She’ll never know it was us. I was thousands of miles away when it happened and so were you. Besides, you don’t even know who she is. How would you?” You finished the final E.

He seemed relived to see you finish, but then you moved the needle to her cheek and began to draw out, in juvenile naughtiness, a strange and poorly-conceived shape. He only squinted at it until he realized what it was meant to be.

You finished off the final touch on the hard cock and balls, its tip spraying cum in both the direction of her right eye and the direction of her open-hanging mouth. He then watched you refocus your attention on her pristine ass. “Oh no,” he said. “Don’t do that.”

By the time you were finished, her cheeks jiggling all the while, you had written R A on the left cheek, and E D on the right, with a solitary P written in the crevice between her cheeks, the D shape at the P’s top wrapped around her butthole. You pulled the needle back and shook it, almost looking like an expert, clearing it of Randy’s cum as best you could. You then focused down on the soles of her feet. On one you wrote Your Self Worth and on the other you wrote Your Dignity, doing so so that every step she took, she did so knowing she was stepping on both.

You then flipped her over. Randy’s face contorted further into the rarely-experienced state of concern.

You circled the area around her tits, then you drew a line from both down to a central place and then wrote a message there, on her stomach. “Embarrassingly Small LoL.”

When you handed Randy the needle to put away, you could almost hear the relief in his breathing.

It was a short-lived relief.

You looked back at your couch, with your brother and father still lying there, their eyes shut and their mouths laying open; their cocks still throbbing hard. “How long will they be hard for?” you asked.

He looked back, his brows furrowed with renewed angst. “Until long after they wake up, I think. At least that’s what they say.”

You stared at them. Your brother’s dick throbbed.

“Help me lift them.”

You kneeled on the couch, straddling your mom, her ass facing upward again, and you looked over at your dad and brother on the opposing couch, lying horizontal in opposite directions, with your dad on top with his son’s hard cock poking up and into his open mouth, and your brother below, his inner-cheek similarly being invaded by his father’s cock. “Okay, manly-men. Before I leave you too with the burden of incest on your consciences forever, allow me to share in that, the oldest of all sins, with a little incest of my own.“

You thrusted a few times, feeling your cock push and pull through the inside of your mom’s wet mouth. It didn’t take long for that to get a rise from your balls, especially as your cock pressed the inside of the cheek which wore your beautiful artwork. The indrawn cock throbbing at its tip from your thrusts. You pulled out, and allowed yourself to gush from your tip, its gooey goodness, built up from many days of travel and gas station food, fell to her already-soiled forehead, cheeks, blind eyes, and open mouth.

Randy watched, worried for your post-nut clarity. But when that clarity came, all it did was allow you to appreciate what you had done without the haze of arousal cheapening it. You smiled over your mom. Smiled across from your brother and father. Your balls empty. Your goals achieved. Your foes vanquished.

And it was then, for the first time in your life, that you understood what it was like to be a man.

“Oh,” you said. “I get it now.”



She walked from her on-campus office, textbooks and binders against her chest. Her mediocre face was hidden in the natural shade of the nighttime campus. Her body found it harder to not express its glory through silhouette.

As she moved, she felt a strange sensation, one she should have known to trust, that sixth sense, or that one of many, which women had and men did not.

A figure moved past in shadow. From bush-to-bush, or maybe from car-to-tree, she couldn’t tell. She could barely tell if she had seen it. But she picked up the pace, finding it hard to move, as usual, with her giant ass tagging along behind her.

A silhouette, one tilted forward in the mannerism of action, flashed passed again, this time without her being able to pin-point where, only knowing that she had seen it.

She began to run, and then, feeling the tension mount, she dropped her books. She heard the chattering of footsteps behind her, their sounds mingled with her own. Not me! she thought frantically. He got Joanne. He got Deborah. But the East Campus Rapist can’t possibly get me! Can he? I’m a professor of Gender Studies! I wrote the definitive paper on Rape Culture. I should be shielded. Right? Always someone else. Never me!

She knew this to be naïve the moment she felt a strong, masculine body smash into her own. She had stood on that campus a woman, she fell to the ground now a victim. She tried to scream, but a powerful hand wrapped itself around her mouth, silencing her voice. She almost passed out when she felt it, her pants and underwear being tugged down in one-fell-swoop by the viscous hand of the attacker.

Shut the fuck up, bitch,” he growled. “Or I’ll make this really bad for you.” She had never heard his voice before. She rarely heard many male voices at all these days. She taught classrooms full of women, and the one or two men who sat there amongst them never seemed comfortable enough to express themselves through speech or classroom discussion. It wasn’t their place to.


She felt a hand smack her on the gigantic surface area of her right ass cheek.

For what it’s worth,” he said. “You have the second best ass of all of them.

Of all of who? She thought.

He seemed to predict her question. “Of all my victims.” He began to straddle over her. She could feel his weight, large and heavy, pinning her impossibly down into place. “And before you think I’m about to go easy on you,” he hissed with unconcealed satisfaction. “Number one was my mother.”

Her eyes went wide.

She felt the cock plunge deep inside her.

She creamed silently into his gripping palm.

As he pummelled her ass greedily in the darkness with his thrusting hips, her binder sat many yards away, their pages open and spiralling through the night wind, illuminated by the light from the lamppost. They spiralled past, until they opened to an essay with your name on its front.

On the front of it, in big red pen, was scrawled an A-, with a message next to it: “You’re finally starting to get it,” it read. “Keep it up, Ally!”

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King Me


Sep 25, 2023

Holy fuck, this is great!


Question, would you do a beast NTR story if commissioned?

Sep 08, 2023
Replying to

I'd be interested writing it. It would depend how many words though and the exact specifics of the plot i think

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