top of page

Spy Vs. Spy

Your phone burned in your hand as you held it at your waist. Its screen was currently black, but its inactivity was an illusion. As you walked, trying not to look at the target moving ahead of you as she pushed her baby in its stroller, your phone was alive with action, and it was documenting everything it caught within its lifeless eye.

You took a few looks ahead at what it was aimed at, and seeing it there, in beautiful motion within the confines of its black lulu-lemon leggings, was a perfect ass, shaping and reshaping itself in immortal motion. You followed it through your neighbourhood mall, your usual stomping ground, and you internally prayed that the ass you were capturing would turn into a store, one which you could enter yourself without drawing attention to your presence there. If it were a makeup store or Victoria’s Secret, you’d have to wait outside at a nearby bench, looking non-assuming, only to rise, as if by coincidence, once your target emerged, like a vision, from its entrance, only to continue getting your shots as you followed at a spear’s throw behind her.

When she turned into the book store, you thanked your lucky stars. You wandered off at only a slight distance from where she was headed, letting her get settled into a section. Once she slowly wandered to the Community and Culture section, a classic, you slowly began to swoop in. You switched your phone to your left hand, something which you had to be careful to not do too often, it looking strange to onlookers, and you floated beside her. The Community and Culture section was always a jackpot to you, as it was in the corner of the store, and it was sandwiched between two other aisles, so much so that you were more likely to be noticed by an onlooker looking into the window of the store from within the outside mall than by a shopper passing the aisle within the book store itself.

The best thing about the book store, other than its tall book shelves which obscured your movements, was the product on the shelves was naturally attention-grabbing. This case was no different, as the target grabbed a copy of The Vindication of the Rights of Women by Mary Wollstonecraft and began to look at its back. You took this opportunity to do the same to her. You switched your phone back to your right hand and you feigned to pass her.

When she noticed, she stepped inward awkwardly, and said “sorry” (something you adored making them say), and as you passed behind her, you bent your wrist so that the flat of your phone was held parallel to the side cheek of her ass, and as you continued passed her, you let your wrist rotate, keeping the eye of the camera on the ass that it hovered a mere inch away from, securing an almost 180 degree shot for yourself. It was this technique which had earned you the name Shadow, and with the spy app giving you the occasional buzz to assure you it was still active as you passed your target and re-situated yourself on her other side, you smiled, knowing that you had caught exactly what you were hoping you could the second you saw her emerge from a clothing store, bursting into your world and hobby and filling the specific shape that sat hallow within it mere seconds before.

Her baby looked up at you from its carriage, and catching it in your eye, you looked back down at it.

It began to giggle.

“He likes you,” you heard her say.

You looked up at her for a moment, catching her smiling in a friendly and non-assuming way. You looked down and smiled yourself, not saying anything. Then you switched the phone in your hands again and got another close-up of her ass as you passed behind her a second time to leave the aisle. The good thing about this technique was that unless girls grew eyes on the backs of their upper thighs, they’d never notice it happening to them. But the downside was that if anyone noticed the motion of your wrist as you passed by a particularly large or shapely ass, it wouldn’t take much imagination to figure out what it was you were doing. The phone’s screen appearing to be off (a product of your spy app) usually kept them from figuring out what it was you were doing in all cases, even if your behaviour was strange, but this technique was one of the few that challenged your natural subterfuge, being just short of positioning your camera up a skirt (something which you had never dared before) in terms of its conspicuousness.

You took an extra second in passing behind her, knowing just how good that extra second always appeared on video. Again, this was something you’d normally avoid if you were more out in the open. But luckily, the books on feminism, black and indigenous rights, and queer theory were stashed in such an obscure place, isolating your target from any outside shenanigans.

You circled around to the shelf over, looking at the books at its furthest edge, with your eyes always on the end of the Culture and Community aisle, and when you saw her emerge, pulling her stroller back with her, backing up at an angle and turning to the right, you followed her next to the giant Travel shelf, with your phone angled vertically, with its camera as its lowest point, filming the ass’s motion up close, capturing each flex and jiggle in glorious HD.

When she emerged into the light, and you with her not long behind, you let her gain a bit of distance on you. You looked over at bargain books, and other knick-knacks that would give you a good vantage of her in your peripherals, and when you noticed her dipping into the Psychology and Self-Help book section, you closed in and continued your usual strategies.

When you got there, you saw her kneeling down, looking at the spines of the books on the lowest shelf, her ass looking like an apple in black velvet as she did. You switched your phone into your other hand and began to examine a book on Freud on the shelf. Filming your targets from a moderate distance, and from a stationary position, was actually the best technique as far as capturing the ass in question was concerned. Your signature wrist technique, though iconic, was often done more for your pleasure, it emphasizing for you just how close to your target you got, than it was for the video. Only when the target’s leggings were of a lighter color would such an extreme close-up even register clearly when the shot was up-close enough to block out potential light.

Even still, the second you noticed her grabbing a book from the shelf, a sign that she was preoccupied, you walked past her, using the technique again, and then you rounded back to the same aisle, and did it another time, this time stopping on the opposite side of her, switching your phone over to the other hand, and filming her some more from a still position.

When she left he aisle, you gave her some distance, knowing that you had spent your innocuity capital, and you wandered around the store for another target. But not finding one, at least not one worth the memory on your phone or the battery burned by the camera, you saw your previous target leaving the building through the bookstores outer entrance/exit, which lead out into the parking lot, so you followed behind her, your phone held upside down and vertically at your outer thigh on your way out.

Noticing you behind her, she held the door open for you, and you took the opportunity to put the eye of your phone close to her ass as you grabbed the door from her with the flat of your other hand. She looked up at you and smiled a neighbourly smile, and you smiled back awkwardly without looking at her, but you didn’t say thank you, not being able to conjure the words.

As you followed her out in the parking lot, even though your car was in the lot on the opposite side of the mall, you saw a couple walking in your direction. The man, who stood over six feet, clicked his keys with his thumb, and you could hear his car beep lock.

You passed them, and without faking a pretext, you spun around and began to follow them from a distance. You had always joked that you owed the existence of your little hobby to the Lulu Lemons corporation, and in this case it was no different. The target walked next to her boyfriend, likely about five-foot-five, with her butt perky and with real star-power.

As her boyfriend held open the door for you, his girlfriend continuing on ahead, you decided to not to press your luck, and you held your phone in a way that was more natural, knowing that you were failing to catch the girl on film in this moment.

As the door closed, and the boyfriend began to open the second set of doors, you caught a brief glimpse of your previous target looking at you from the door of her car through the reflection on the door’s glass. You smiled to yourself at the sight, wondering how much of what you had done to her she had just figured out, and how much she would figure out later. You didn’t feel worried at all, knowing from experience that clearing the building, whether you did it or your target did, had some strange psychological effect on the target. If you were caught filming a target within the building, they’d either blush and speedwalk away, hoping that you wouldn’t be shameless enough to follow them now that the jig was up, or you’d see them acting innocuous, before wandering over to staff or security, saying something you couldn’t make out while stealing nervous glances at you.

In the latter case, though it rarely ever happened any more, you’d speedwalk away yourself toward the nearest exit, feeling the outer air cool against your heated face, passing mall-goers in the parking lot looking over at you as if they knew what you had done, though in reality they were only noticing the look of trouble in your facial features, feeling empathy for you rather than disgust, not knowing what it was that upset you so.

Only a few times had getting caught gone any differently. Once, early on in your career, you had been caught using a rudimentary version of your wrist technique on a target, a PAWG blonde fresh from the gym, that you had been filming for too long by a nearby mother and her daughter. The mother, noticing the vulgarity of your action, and the look in your face as you looked down at the ass your hand floated an inch away from, knew better than to say anything, understanding the cruel depths of male perversion and the darkness that followed it. Her daughter on the other hand, being ignorant to the world, whispered “ewww mom!” You turned down an empty aisle, and quickly found your way outdoors and to your car.

Another time, you had followed a girl up the escalator, capturing her jean short clad ass and her naked thighs, and you followed her into a housewares store, having trouble keeping up with her. Noticing that she was examining frilly pillows, and not having the confidence to be able to pretend to be looking at them yourself for a female relative or something of the sort, you instead circled around her, waiting for your moment when she’d loose herself from the section and find something more. Noticing that not only was she not budging, but you had circled around her too many times to appear innocuous, you left the store. Turning around one last time as you left, you noticed her leaving herself, but heading toward the doors to the malls upper parkade.

As soon as she had passed, you turned around blatantly and followed her. And as she reached the outer doors, she stopped and stood there. You, not being able to turn on a dime, especially with people following behind you, just continued on. And when she noticed you coming, and realizing that it was you was behind her yet again, she gave you what appeared to be a concerned look.

You pocketed your phone and continued past her out the doors, not daring to look at her for even a second. As you continued along the parkade sidewalk, hoping that you weren’t being watched, knowing that you hadn’t parked up here and you were running out of space to walk through, you turned around and saw her standing at the doors, looking at you, with her phone to her ear.

You found the stairs down to the parking lot, where your car was just below, and you rushed down them and into your car and drove away, your head bloated with paranoia which flared up violently every time you passed by a security vehicle or cop car, even when you were a mile down the street from the mall.

Days later, you had come back to the mall, and as you passed through an outlet store, you saw a pretty female face, looking at you with an expression of disgust and bad memories. A sudden terror took hold of you when you realized who it was. But when you looked back and saw her looking away, standing in line to pay for her clothes, you realized she wasn’t going to do anything. It was strange, impossible to understand even, but once the moment had ended, often its ending being measured by you or the target leaving the building, the danger that came with the moment ended as well.

You wandered around the store for a bit, looking for any target other than her, not willing to risk getting your fill of her again. But when you left, and wandered around the mall some more, you saw her again, making her way up the same escalator as before, and overcome by the déjà vu of it, and seeing nobody within your path, you boarded the escalator just behind her. But this time you stood a full step closer to her.

As you both reached the second floor, you followed behind her closely, feeling compelled to tilt your phone in an obvious angle by the thickness of the crowd which had suddenly formed around you. And then, jolting you from your complacency, you heard a name called from behind you.


Instinctively, you stepped to the left, just as “Cara” spun around on her right, avoiding her gaze upon you entirely. And as you did, your wrist acted with the same degree of finesse, twisting as the phone’s little eye followed the jiggling fat of her ass with a swooping 180 degrees of motion.

As you passed her, you pocketed your phone, and you continued on. Behind you, you could hear your target and her friend talking.

“Yeah, just a few days ago,” Cara said. “I think he was… taking pictures of my butt.”


They were following just behind you, and you smiled to yourself as you listened.

“What a creep. Doesn’t he have porn he can just watch.”

As you smiled, pondering the feminine inability to truly grasp male sexuality at its messy edges, you turned off slightly, making sure to keep your head tilted at an angle that would hide your face from them, and as you saw them pass, their asses partly obscured by the crowd, you noted that Cara’s friend was significantly less endowed than she was.

It was funny. Girls like Cara could complain all day long about what you had done to her – twice – but it was girls like her friend, girls who nobody would want to film at all, who had the most to be upset about. Having less men there to stalk and film you from behind meant having less to smile at you and approach you from the front. The only difference between you and those guys was that you shared your winnings with others, whereas they hogged the ass they had access to like the idle rich hogged wealth.

You knew that your next video, the one you’d be editing and uploading as soon as you got home, would be entitled “Cara – Second Round Knockout.”

The third strange occurrence, and the one that probably left the largest impression on you, was once when you were following a family of five. The two daughters in the family took after their mother. And the father, likely due to living a life that involved three gigantic female asses, seemed to have an almost sixth sense for creeps. Fortunately, the youngest daughter, along with her brother, had broken off in the book store and headed for the young adult section, where you made short work of her ass. The young adults section was secluded enough that you could do it securely. Her brother was the only obstacle, and he was so young that you knew that even if he had caught you, he could do nothing about it. Young men were no help to anybody, including their mothers, who you often would take pride in working on in front of them. If they ever discovered you, they would just look, not sure what to do.

After you were done, you found the mom with her eldest daughter in the Community and Culture section. You found your moment to pass them, which was when they had closed together to look at the book her daughter had grabbed. Their close proximity made passing them at once, important for keeping either from noticing the camera, as they would share the same approximate field of vision, easy. And while passing you rotated your wrist slowly this time, having two asses to catch in its folding arc. As you looked down at the asses, you had realized that their cheeks had bumped into each other in motion, something which, at the time, you were hoping it had been caught by the camera. Your focus was so intense, that after you had past them, weathering their apologies for being in your way with grace, you looked up with a smile.

Standing there, before you, but behind a pane of glass, right in the middle of the mall, was your two targets’ father and husband. He was looking directly at you. His eyes burned with an anger you had never witnessed in any man before. An anger which you hoped to never witness again.

You stared into his eyes, and he into yours, then you watched as his eye-line drifted down toward your right hand. You looked down at it, your phone sitting within it, almost innocuous in this moment, but the two of you both knew the images which filled it, satiating its digital hunger with their mass.

“Where’s dad,” you heard behind you.

“I don’t know,” the mom said. “Let’s look.”

You turned around to see the mom and daughter walking off, clearing a path for you in the direction that you’d have to take, there being no other, in order to escape.

You looked back at the dad, his eyes burning like coals on the mantlestands of his cheeks, and slowly, almost with a hint of mischievousness, you began to turn around, and as you did, you rotated your phone within your fingers, flipping its camera lens in the direction of your two targets. And as you cleared the aisle, following closely behind them, you turned and looked back at the human ball of rage standing outside. One second he was there, his face a scolding red, the next he was gone.

He would be coming from the left as you exited the aisle, and as you did, you passed your phone to your left hand and let it capture one last Parthian shot of the pair of buttocks, both similar and different, as they naively went back out into the world, both innocently looking for their male loved one.

By the time you had seen him round the corner, you had already found refuge in the shadow of the Science Fiction and Fantasy section. You stood at its edge, with one eye on the Game of Thrones series, and the other peaking out at the store’s floor. You saw the man in a flurry, explaining something to his wife and daughter with a real intensity, startling them as he did, and your ears burned, not from the thrill of being talked about, but from a strange combination of terror and excitement which came packaged within this moment, one emotion being the other’s sister.

The father held his hand up, and then clenched his fingers around an invisible object, and it didn’t take much imagination to figure up what he was telling them. Within seconds, the younger of the two targets spun around, and you reflexively strafed within the aisle as quickly, but nonchalantly, as possible. You peeked back out to see her there, still looking.

They were standing at the exit into the mall, and the exit leading out into the parking lot was at the opposite end from where you hid. This factor, among others, made it difficult for you to escape. Instead you waited, biding your time. When you heard two female voices, you looked over, and saw two girls, one more attractive than the other, come into your aisle from the other end.

“Have you ever read The Hobbit?” the more attractive one asked.

“No,” her friend said. “I’ve only read the Trilogy.”

You backed up instinctively, giving them room to come in close, and when they did, you passed by, passing your phone to the other hand, and you filmed the backside of the attractive one as you waited.

Her ass was large for her relatively in-shape body, and it sat like a shapeless mess within her ugly brown sweatpants. That was the thing with nerds. They could have well-shaped and formed asses. They could have large, delicious asses. But they could never have both. It was as if the same logic which governed the formation of their face, that which said they could have big eyes, a bright smile, dimples, or a cute nose, but never without some other flaw to contradict it.

This target stood there with her beautiful eyes and nose, and also her goofy front teeth and horrid fashion sense, oblivious to her coming internet stardom, and she spit excessively through her explanation of Tolkien’s state of mind while writing his classic of adventure, her ass jiggling within frame, unbeknownst to you and her both, with her body’s half-autistic convulsions.

She was a natural.

But the family who was now on red alert for you lacked this beautiful dysgenia of your caste, the asses of all three of its clan being both large and shapely, almost too perfect for this earth, and two out of the thee of them jiggled as they jerked their bodies back and forth, one looking for you, as strange as it sounded, with the other trying to calm down her burning spit of a husband.

It was a shame that shots of the target could only be obtained under such specific circumstances, as there were a limited number of contexts, including the one before you, where filming an ass would have given it a new flavor.

Instead, you had been completely beaten back, a rat shivering within its hole, and you wouldn’t even dare allow your phone to hover around the edge of the shelf to capture the sight from a distance, though you knew in your heart of hearts that you deserved it.

You could hear their muttering voices, and then you heard those voices become louder and more clear, as if deliberately being projected, indicating to you plainly that they had made distance between each other, a prospect you feared most, because it meant they had split up to try to find you.

You stood there, your forehead becoming crowded with sweat, with your phone aimed at the large unshapely ass which twitched and jiggled at its owners diatribe. In a perfect world, you would get to stand here innocuously and film that jiggling, twitching butt for as long as your cock desired. But you had deprived yourself of that pleasure through your carelessness, and all but kissing the ass goodbye in your mind, you dragged your camera’s eye away from its magnetic cheeks and reluctantly rounded the corner, staying as close to the outer wall’s shelves as you possibly could. You heard an explanation regarding the monologues of Smaug slowly becoming quieter as you moved until it was drowned out by the competing sounds of the store.

Every time you rounded an aisle and saw a figure standing within or walking through it, your gasp was almost audible, though each time it was a false alarm. Seeing one aisle had been made crowded by the shapely body of only a single Latina girl of about twenty, you took that as a good omen, and you decided to slide through that one, giving your camera a healthy helping of the ass which signalled to you so.

For a split second you were exposed along the railing to the main floor, where you caught a glimpse of the father peeking slowly around a corner for a you that wasn’t there. That’s one of them, you thought, and you slipped back into another aisle.

When you looked both ways before exiting that aisle, you saw that the two before you were home to very different things. One contained a massively overweight woman, one whose shape, if it ever existed in the first place, was lost in a limitless sea of her own gluttony. She was drooling over a romance novel that she gripped in her pudgy fingers like it were a sandwich. The other aisle contained one of the employees, a moderately attractive black girl, perfect in shape. Being a black girl, her ass was more than servicable, and she was often your consolation prize whenever you had come here without finding a worthier target. You got another shot of her to add to your accumulating pile as you passed her.

Before you could get to the end of the aisle, the fat girl from the one over eclipsed the light for a moment as she passed by, and when your eyes finally adjusted, you felt a jolt run through you, tearing a void through your mounting comfort. Standing before you, facing away, her eyes down another aisle, was the back of a blonde head, and below it, a perfect milf ass. It was one of your targets-turned-persecutor, and knowing what was coming you began to pivot in place, all while placing your phone with precision into your backpocket, it’s eye pointing away from you at where the target stood.

As you walked back in the direction you came, passing the sweet coco ass as its owner placed books onto the shelf, you could hear feet moving along the carpet in a way that you had learned from experience was that of an attractive woman of middle age, and you couldn’t contain your smile, knowing that you were catching her in motion, this time from the front all while retreating from her.

You got to the end of the aisle, and when you did, you rounded to the right, assuming that that was where she had come from. Your assumption was proven right when she passed by you, being captured all the while by your phone as you held it at your waist halfway into the next aisle. As you did, you saw her husband coming up from the next direction, and just as his wife rounded the corner, and our of your phone’s sight, he rounded his and looked in the direction where you had been standing, pointing your phone at his wife, only to find an empty space.

You were surrounded by books about World War II on both sides of yourself, and soon you were surrounded again by books about The Cold War. You were nearing the front door now, and only had to clear a few more aisles, and then a larger open area where bargain books was placed, in order to make it outside.

As you rounded another corner, you stopped frozen. At the end of the aisle, the door to the parking lot just behind it, stood a large, slightly bent over ass, the head sharing its body extended around the edge of the aisle. She was peeking out, near the direction of the young adult section, likely with a conscious or unconscious impulse to protect her sister from your camera’s invasive gaze, and in doing so, she showed an impressive degree of forethought, making every part of her small as she peered around the corner, everything but the one part of her that couldn’t be made small enough.

You knew you should double back and find a safer aisle, but something in you, something unlike your usual self, prodded you from behind, and shocking you with its suddenness, you felt your foot shoot forward.

Her perfect early-twenty something ass, its muscles nice and tight from her position, and from the stress of her guardianship, got bigger in your sight, and as you got closer, you felt your tongue drying in your mouth and armpits getting wet with sweat. Even still, you persisted.

You angled your phone in front of you until you had locked the ass into its gaze, and just as you passed her, feeling your pulse moving a mile a minute, you let your wrist rotate, catching the partially bent over apple that sat waiting for it.

Your eyes almost rolled back into your head, and as if she sensed something, perhaps having an allergy, much like most women do, to the pheromones of male joy, she spun around, only to see nothing, or if not nothing, the ghost of whatever it was that had just floated past her.

You stood in the next aisle over, alone, and in that privacy, your arms almost did a strange dance, as your eyelids remained half closed, feeling like some sort of maestro. Just as you opened your eyes, she passed in front of you, and down the stairs. When you noticed the fat girl was just behind her, you realized it was your chance, and following along, you continued down the stairs behind that giant boulder of flesh.

Your target heard the footsteps, but she turned around to only see the flush behemoth sweating behind her. You looked off to your left to see both mom and dad still in furious watch. Just as your target turned back around, seeing her younger sister at the end of the aisle, you emerged from around the tub of lard, and just as you positioned your phone before you, ready to catch both magnificent sights within it at once, the fat girl noticed your presence emerging almost as if from within her very own folds.

“Oh,” she said, flustered. “Sorry.”

Your targets looked over, and looking over, only saw one large fat girl seeming to be speaking only to her own shadow.

There was nobody there.

Their asses sat in anticipation, as if wanting to be filmed despite their owners’ lack of vision.

And this was as they should have sat. As they were being filmed from behind.

You stood at the other end of the aisle, having rounded the corner, now in the open area with the bargain books, your camera trained on both the young women, each ass as like the other in gorgeousness as they were different in beauty. There was nothing better than family, and that couldn’t be seen anywhere more than in the competing ass flesh of its members. It was moments like this that the average Mall Walker lived for.

And then, as if the moment too pure, or a figure of calculation somewhere in the backroom of life knew there needed to be a tat of conflict for this tit of bliss, you heard a masculine scream in your right ear. You looked over to see their guardian standing there, almost breathing flame as he glared at you. Then, as if just realizing it, he looked over to see the heads of his daughters within the aisle, and realizing they had been caught by you twice, his rage showed in his eyes in a way that would have been vivid without the contributions from the rest of his body and face. Just as his wife came from behind, her shapely waist pressed into his straight equivalent, he shot toward you.

You spun around, hearing the older sister say “there he is!” and her younger sibling saying “What? Who?” and you jetted off toward the door. Just as you did, like a coming eclipse, you saw the fat woman passing by, moving in its direction as slow as her pig-like legs could take her. You stepped off to the left, then scrunched your body up to make yourself small, and landing on your left leg, you lowered yourself on it, knowing that your safety or fall would be its responsibility, and with one sudden movement you pushed off it toward the thinning ray of light.

You disappeared in front of the fat woman, escaping through the door on her other side.

“Move!” the dad yelled gutterally at her colossal back.

He smashed into her behind, bouncing off of it toward his two daughters, knocking his youngest down with him. The fat woman, stood humiliated, jammed into the frame of the door. She began to sob as the figures of beauty stood behind her, trapped for the time being within the venue of their own sort of humiliation.

You thought about this moment, its terror and thrill, as you followed the couple. You had learned a lot since then, and it showed with how you subtly tailed your target now through a clothing store, making sure you always had something that you would buy within examining range, so that you could stand near off, holding your phone inconspicuously at your side, letting it capture what it may. Seeing the perfect moment for your trademarked wrister, you rounded the display table filled with jeans, and you got in close as the couple were talking to a mutual friend who they seemed to stumble upon working at the store.

Leaving them to their privacy after you got your fill, you stood in the mall, feeling your phone heavy in your sweating fist. You had done a good day’s work, and unless you could find something equally as mouth-watering on your way toward the exit, you were done for the day.

“Let’s see how Ghost competes with that,” you muttered with your empty fist clenched. “Take that you f’ing hack.”

The bus ride home was a sexless affair. The bus stop had a pretty girl sitting at it on her phone, but it was impossible to tell what she was really packing until she stood up. Her cheeks were still glued to the seat by the time your bus came. When you got onto it, it was mostly empty, and it stayed that way until one stop where a surprisingly large number of the elderly got onboard.

Old women, whose butts had withered away into nothing, sat there like skeletons in post-nuclear wreckage, their beauty but a half-dreamt fantasy, from a past they could barely believe themselves which had them bent over their chest-of-drawers in a sepia-toned moment, a big-dicked veteran, fresh home from his stint in Korea, plowing their giant fannies from behind with real panash.

The wars, technology, and hairstyles may have changed, but the asses never did.

Perfect fidelity had always been a reactionary myth, but the half-hearted attempt at some degree of monogamy being all but dead meant now that sex, or at least sex of any consistent availability, could only be enjoyed by the top twenty percent of men. You could imagine the thick-thighed chad, sitting with his wide jaw, holding his smug grin, as a face bobbed up and down in his lap, his line of sight floating up her back and down toward her two big round cheeks, each clad in an ugly shade of brown, she only having two pairs of pants, only for his cock to fall from her mouth, and to look up at her adonis, sitting there on her knees, with her eyes big and beautiful, and her teeth jutting out of her mouth like a demented chipmunk, excited to tell her lover for the night about how the book version of Game of Thrones was different from the television show.

In a past decade or two, that ass would have been meant for you, give or take a moment of weakness on the side (which could be excused, as Chad dick had to be exciting). In the modern world, a female ass, no matter how meagre, was as much of a luxury as owning a house had become. Houses themselves existed everywhere, yet they still somehow managed to be out of reach for the average young man. The only thing left for guys like you were a comfortable life of watching and enjoying. And you weren’t really complaining. If it weren’t for the modern way of things, you wouldn’t have an audience for your little hobby anyways. And in your hobby, all girls could be yours. Not just the bucktoothed chipmunks with the pretty eyes, but the nines and tens. Any ass you could get close to you could claim with your famous watermark: “TheShadow669,” your videos, each one a work of art, exposing the fine and particular shapes of your targets to tens of thousands, as vividly to the young man sitting jerking off in Connecticut as it was to the one in Calcutta doing the same.

You stood behind an old woman, rolling your eyes internally as you waited for her to inch off the bus. You had no patience for it, wanting as badly as anything to get home and to begin editing what you had. Excited to give the world a wonderful show, one step and two cheeks at a time.

As you both got off the bus the old woman began patting herself. “Oh,” she said, and turned to look at you as you tried to walk off. “My purse, it’s on the bus.”

“Oh,” you said, and continued on as the bus doors closed behind the two of you and continued on without her as she turned around and stared at it driving off.

As you walked through your little pocket of suburbia, you caught another glimpse, though only for a moment, of a perfect ass existing in its own natural habitat. It was a glimpse, and then the woman attached to it got into her convertible, hiding it from the world, even as her face remained free. That was the thing with ass, it was the most desired resource of all, and it existed in abundance if one knew where to look for it, but even if one were to find it, they could only catch it in strange, surreal bursts, ass itself often as eager to disappear from sight as it was to burst into appearance. Being an artist in the form of the kind you were involved a game of finding those little windows of time, and placing yourself within them as that objective eye, that fly on the wall, which every man wished he could witness these objects of beauty through. It was as much a celebration of beauty as it was a form of impotent dominance. And neither were evil, it was only the ass that was, the ass which swallowed you whole into the space between its cheeks, all while, paradoxically, not allowing you to touch it. It was only your awareness it asked for. Not your touch, your open gratitude, or your documentation.

As the girl in the convertible drove passed you, you mourned the piece of ass that was getting away. The list of them was its own holocaust. Juicy, soft, round, insatiable butts that moved, bobbed, and jiggled through a world of metal and concrete. Butts that travelled through the cloak and dagger of jean shorts and leggings, sweatpants and tight-fitting dresses. It was a subterfuge most cruel, and every ass involved as conniving as the best of the MI6 of the CIA.

You knew from experience though that it paid nothing to dwell on it, and replacing the thoughts with those of what you did manage to catch on this bountiful day did just the trick. So much so that when you turned the corner, bringing your own street into view, you did so with a beaming smile.

That smile dropped as soon as it formed when you saw him across the street.

It was your neighbour, and he stood there, on his lawn, next to his mower, close enough to make it look like he was busy with it, but with his eyes pointed across the street like daggers at something on your front lawn.

As visible as your smile would have been from a distance, your grimace was that much more conspicuous, and the only thing that kept your neighbour from spotting it at the end of the street was that which drew his attention so intensely sitting on your front lawn.

“Bastard,” you muttered, and when you rounded the bend of your street, the first part of it you seen was that which you feared it would be most. Not that it could have been anything else. You could tell in his eyes what had stolen his attention as if it were his soul, and it bobbed there, up in the air, swaying slightly from side to side, before coming back down to the grass.

You rounded the corner further, and there your mom kneeled, obliviously, within the dirt of her own garden. Her spade penetrated a mound of dirt in a sudden and wet thrust. All the while, her ass sat round and unguarded, poking up into the afternoon air.

Even when you crossed passed her, obscuring her with yourself for a moment, he didn’t stray away, his mind tuning out all distraction, and it was only when he dropped his head to wipe sweat from it for a moment that looking up he saw you staring back at him with equal intensity to that which he focused on your mom with, except with you it was an undeniable anger and disgust which filled your features in place of arousal and fascination.

Seeing you, he turned back suddenly, snapping like a marionette, and began grabbing at the handles of his lawnmower at random places, as if he were fixing it somehow, and he had only lost his place for a moment, and nothing more.

“Yeah, that’s right,” you muttered silently to yourself. “Keep your eyes to yourself you perv.”

You turned around and went up the steps. You opened the front door, stepped inside, and close it behind you.

Your mom heard a sudden bang, and she fell back to her butt and looked up in the direction she heard it from. Her stoop stood there, empty, the front door of her house closed as it had been. She then pivoted on her knees, looking around, looking for the source of the sound, and the neighbour must have heard it too, as he was looking in her direction. Until she turned and spotted him that is, then he quickly turned around, almost flustered, likely from the noise your mom figured, and he got back to work on his lawnmower.

“Huh,” she said. “It must’ve been nothing.” And she wasn’t surprised. She had barely gotten any sleep the night previous and she had spent the whole current day running errands around town. It didn’t surprise her that she’d hear a sound or two that was simply conjured up from her own imagination.

She turned back around, kneeled down, and got back to work, and in turn, the neighbour across the street stopped his.

You sat in your bedroom, in front of your PC, pants off, not interested in sullying the sacredness of your ritual with denim. The soft air of the room breathed over your thighs and the leather of your computer chair stuck to your naked ass as you combed over your booty for the day. You had already looked through various videos, each one labelled with a random assortment of numbers and letters, and being only occasionally decipherable, jogging the memory through its run-time. You’d then click through the video, trying to remember its context, and trying to remember what you were following, if anyone, within that moment. Finding a few, you labelled them based on the girl. “Couple,” “bookworm,” and “milf” were among the names given, and each video that fit that description was given a chronological number after it in order to make editing an easy process for you.

The files, when finished, sat like an army of sexy but unaware terracotta soldiers within your hard-drive and online output. These girls, which you saw as members of your sexy bodyguard, whether in this life or the next, were ready to make their e-debut, and some of them, at least one if not two, had the potential to become internet canon, their images being recreated and re-shared through the incomplete annals of internet culture like so many spoken folklores, their asses immortal longer than their souls ever could be.

“It’s been a good day,” you told yourself audibly. “A very good day. Let’s see that bastard outdo this.”

You thought about him and you could see your reflected scowl in the glass of your computer monitor. It hovered over a pristine ass like a large ghost, haunting her butt cheeks, or the mall she moved them through.

“No,” you told yourself. “There’s no way he beat me today.” You edited the ass, tweaking it into slowmotion at the perfect moment, that where the camera had closed its shortest distance with it, it getting large in its fish-eyed frame. “He has no chance in hell.”

As you sat there, going like a fine tooth comb over your footage, your mom walked down the hallway, singing to herself with a towel in her hands the way she only could when she had assumed she was alone in the house for the day. Seeing all the room doors open, with yours the only one shut, as it always was whether you were there or not, and not seeing or hearing you come in, she had no reason to assume that she had company in the house with her at all.

And because of that, and only because of that, she moved to the bathroom completely nude, but for the towel she haphazardly wrapped around herself. Her bare feet guided her lush and naked body toward the warmth of the shower she loved more than anything.

When she got inside, she turned on the tap, and not long after, her towel dropped.

You sat at your computer, your cock throbbing as you watched the bar go white, the one signifying the upload progress of you day’s super-cut. Outside you heard the shower turn on, followed closely by your mom’s whistling.

You smiled as you turned in your chair, facing the shut door of your room. She must not know I’m home, you thought. She never lets me catch her whistling otherwise.

You spun back around to find that your video had finished.

“Wonderful,” you murmured.

As you clicked through your gorgeous collection of butts in motion, you noticed how the view counter climbed, and it climbed fast, and you grinned to yourself imagining all the satisfied customers, just what they looked like enjoying your work on that other end. Fellow ass aficionados, virgins and incels, all celebrating as one in the violation of a butt. Butt cheeks spilled slowly like a syrupy liquid over and through the grooves of your life, making it sugary and wholesome and fun, and gluing you to your community like paste. The women involved had no clue regarding what tribes and civilizations were built on the jiggling foundation of their cheeks, and just how much energy, mental, physical, and spiritual, had been spent on them, watching them in their most mundane moments. It was men who appreciated female beauty, and only men. Anything short of exploitation and worship wasn’t appreciation, it was a taking for granted beyond any other that could ever be known or conceived of. It was only women who were capable of such blindness, but you weren’t complaining. If it weren’t for female tunnel vision, you’d never be able to cling to those asses in the malls, shops, and parks, like static fluff without them noticing you there.

As you clicked back to the now-uploaded video of the couple, you noticed your first comment, and grinning with pride, you scrolled down.

“Wow, what a treat! First Ghost uploads a perfect ass today, and now you too. Your video is almost as good.”

You sat there, your grin fading, what was left of it rising like vapor to the stucko of your ceiling.

At first you only sat there calmly, neutrally. But as the seconds went on, you felt something bubbling in you.

“Hmm,” you said to yourself, trying in vain to keep yourself cool. “Looks like Ghost was busy today as well.”

You then leaned forward and moved your mouse, but in doing so, you noticed that the cursor was stuck. That’s when you looked down at it, and seeing it, you realized you had cracked it in your fist.

A smile began to form on your face, all while the sounds of the shower played behind you, accompanying the sounds of summer coming in through your bedroom window. It all sounded so peaceful and soothing, yet none of it could massage its colorful and/or steamy fingers through the tightening muscles of your inner-peace, which were now beginning to make themselves sore for you.

Seconds later, your mouse hit the opposing wall.

Your mom stopped. Her body was lathered white in soap, and as she stood there, looking through the semi-transparent shower curtain to the bathroom door, the suds fell from the dual pressure of gravity and running water, down her bronze body. A frothing river of the concoction streamed down her butt-crack, the path of least resistance, until finding its lowest point and cascading into dead air like a waterfall in the Amazon, its landing point being inches behind her heels.

After a few more moments, looking a the door, but hearing nothing, she shook her head and smiled to herself, and she continued her shower but lathering herself up more, starting with her right butt-cheek.

As you fished an old mouse out of your drawer, you murmured to yourself in a string of expletives, and when you found the mouse, you lowered your volume intuitively, as if realizing that you were making more noise now that your head was out of the pile of junk that your computer drawer carried.

You lifted your head and banged it against the lip of your desk. “Oww,” you said, intensely but quietly. You lifted yourself up, seeing your scowl in the reflection of your monitor, it startling even you, and calming yourself down, you plugged the new mouse into your computer tower, and began to test it. Seeing it worked fine, you took a deep breath and hit the search bar.

“Ghost100” is what you typed in it. You took another breath. You hit enter.

In keeping with Ghost’s other content, this one had a title which was brimming with his usual sexual frustration: “Dumb Brunette Bitch and her Fat Fucking Ass.” This was a gimmick he had stolen from you, appealing to the shared sexual frustration of your audience, and, in place of creativity, made his mark only by turning the concept up to a classless 11. Ever since then, his videos were decorated with “Bitch”s and “Stupid”s the way evergreens were with Christmas lights in December.

As you saw the thumbnail, and noted that the ass that was its subject was indeed nice, you pondered at what amateurish tactics he’d rely on this time. Though you couldn’t see him, based off his camerawork alone, you could tell that his movement speed would seem completely unnatural to any one who noticed him, forcing you to assume that he must have been the most unremarkable human being, at least in terms of looks, who ever lived, as he always seemed to be next to invisible when at work. On top of this, he had a crude gesture that he performed, one which made you blush with embarrassment, where when he got a woman into a secluded location, he’d near her from behind, and then put his open palm out within view of the camera’s eye, and then, as if to attract the attention of the lens, would motion to it, before moving close to the ass of his target with his palm opened up wide, as if to show that he could slap his object of admiration if he wanted to.

It was incredibly low-brow, and you despised him for bringing such antics into your beloved genre, and lowering it to his meagre level of vision and intellect.

With all this in mind, you clicked on his video, the only one for the day, and you braced yourself for the garbage work that yours was being compared to.

You sat for thirty seconds, your fingers and thumb against your forehead, looking at nothing except for flat asses, both male and female, moving along the street. You’d say that his videos needed an editor, except that yours didn’t have one and they seemed to be start at the correct points somehow even without the best of hollywood being behind them with scissors and sunglasses.

It was irritating to you, though you at least appreciated the viewers this laziness scared off. Unfortunately for you, when his target unignorably bounced into view, she brought his video into life like an explosion.

She came in from the right of the frame, seeming to move faster than Ghost, giving him a moneyshot by accident, gifting him with his gold for the day. As you saw his target move, you felt your cock getting hard, and without even thinking about it, you let your hand drift toward it, and feeling it pulse in your fingers, you began to jerk it off.

As you did, you watched the ass moving through the street, carrying its gym bag, and as you watched, something about the video gave you a moment’s pause.

You couldn’t put your finger on it, but there it was.

It was only when the butt, turning, and its owner grabbing the door of what seemed to be a gym or a yoga studio and pulling, that you realized what it was that had you feeling so off.

It had nothing to do with video-quality or compression, or the time of the day or the sound. As Ghost got in close, a standard technique when following a target holding up a door for one, it occurred to you exactly what it was you were feeling. It was familiarity.

You kept watching, intrigued, your cock stiffening even harder in your hand.

It was only when the target cleared the pressure of the door, her butt going loose with her body, and Ghost, with his nasally voice saying “thank you,” that something horrible had occurred to you, it being as sure to you as rain, though you sat onto the bare sliver of a hope that it wasn’t what it clearly was.

The target had gained some distance at this point, leaving her whole body in the frame, and perking her ear, and turning her head slightly to the side at hearing the appreciation, she turned around and to reply in turn.

“You’re welcome,” she said, and then smiled, still moving as she said it, and then she turned back around and kept going.

And you sat there stunned, your cock still hard, though alone now, as you knew what you had just seen.

That face, that smile, was none other than the smile of the woman you knew best.

You heard whistling coming from the bathroom. And the showerhead shutoff, making the whistling louder. And as you listened to it in dreadful silence, you looked ahead at your screen, seeing the ass that that echoey whistle belonged to.

Your cock throbbed at your mom’s fat ass on your computer monitor, and below it, you saw the view counter, early on in its life, only a fraction of what it would be, itself ballooning into bounteous shape, as if in imitation of your mom’s round peach, likely less than a tenth of what it would be a month from now, and, when getting there, shining at its peak, still a meagre town within the canyon of your mom’s behemoth ass.

Your mom’s fat ass had found its stardom.

Below even the counter, seven comments had already materialized themselves:

“Look at that thing.”


“What a delicious ass.”

“I love the closeup.”

Two of the comments were written in Spanish, and another in something you assumed was Hindi.

Like each comment were planted beneath you, lit sticks of dynamite, silent in their burning wick, until only moments before discovery, when they’re too late to be snuffed or disposed of. You felt the boom within your stomach and chest, and though you sat as stationary as a statue, you could have been told by an outside observer that you had been blown through the roof and were now looking at the city from miles above and you would have believed it much more easily than you could believe what you were seeing now on that screen.

What was even more surreal was that Ghost, in an uncharacteristic moment of light-handedness, seemed to be floating around your mom at enough distance to provide establishing shots of her whole frame, something he seemed too dense to be able to accomplish earlier (though none of his fans, or those you shared with him, seemed to notice this lack of taste or intuition).

Though here, that criticism was now irrelevant, your mom, at least in this tiny regard, was being treated, in terms of her worth as a subject, with as much professionalism and skill as her ass deserved.

And then it was this moment, above and beyond all the others which had made your heart sink to new depths. As what you were looking at now seemed to be something you were incapable of processing. It was the distance, the angle, and the steadiness of hand. His seeming decision to stand off to the side at an oblique angle, as if predicting your mom’s next move, and, in doing so, allowing himself to sit stationary in one position and let her body do the talking in place of his camera work.

It was masterful.

Your teeth began to grit in your mouth.

The slight bend in your mom’s back, giving her ass volume from the tension in her thighs, and the slight but unexcessive sexuality implied by it. Ghost, of all people in the world, was there to capture it, and capture it he did, like a true ass documentarian.

“It isn’t possible…” you muttered to a silent god. “It isn’t…”

With every passing fraction of a second, you felt bile building upon itself in the dual pits of your stomach and soul. Could it have been possible? Could Ghost, that hack beyond all hacks, have learned so much in such little time? Why wasn’t he moving? Why wasn’t he doing anything? Where was the shortsighted aggression, the lack of patience, and the pedestrian understanding of framing? It was like he was a whole new person, and the target which happened to be at the ground zero of his transformation was your very own mom. The woman who birthed the man who hated him most, the man who he had ripped off the hardest and had siphoned fans from with his lowest-common-denominator performance and artistry.

Your mom’s butt cheeks danced for him. Danced for his eyes and for his camera, drawing him his fame, adding to it, improving on it with the weight of each cheek and the specificity of their flavor, and the accumulated consciousness of every pair of male eyes which watched and noted. Buckets of cum would be spilled to the strength and softness of your mom’s ass, each one filling up Ghost’s lot, propelling him on a sea of sticky whiteness toward immortality.

Your mom, as if she had stabbed you in the back deliberately, was many of the most important things in a great target. She was an “innocent.” She was a “wobbler.” She was a “two-stepper.” She was an “active catch.”

She was a “darling” and a “rabbit” and a “departing caboose” all at once. She was a “Helen of Troy” and a “Peachy one” and a “Joan of Arc,” almost everything that ever creep was after when looking to fill his library with fresh conquests. And all of it, all 120 pounds of it, was falling, ass first, into the lap of your very own worst enemy, his cock, grin, and pride glad to receive it all.

And what you saw next made your eyes go wide.

“Wait! What is he… No…”

It was official. You weren’t hallucinating. He was beginning to move, and what was more, it felt natural. Your mom’s ass began to get bigger slowly within the frame, and as it did, you gasped audibly, shocked that he was doing it, and more, terrified that he was going to stick the landing.

He suddenly, like lightning, shot in close, without any step feeling too little or too much, alerting nobody to his presence, least of all his target, who was in a slight state of bend, giving his approaching camera more view.

You could barely hear it, but your replacement mouse snapped in your tightening grip.

She had done it. He had captured it. She returned to normal position without awareness. He had moved on inconspicuously.

All of it, every second immortal and sure, was carved in digital stone and available for you to watch from the comfort and privacy of your own room. And you knew that if you had noticed it, so had everyone else.

He had done it.

He had done the impossible.

In one fell swoop, he had done something better than anything you had ever done or could do.

And what served as the lone cherry on top, he had done it with your own mom.

You tried to click out, but your cursor wouldn’t move, and your mind was so polluted with hatred and spite that you failed to understand why. Instead, somehow managing to keep yourself from smashing the screen with your fist, you found the wherewithal to hard shutdown your PC with your thumb jabbing uncomfortably into its power button like a stabbing knife, until the whole thing died, leaving you looking at your haggard expression, neither happy, sad, nor angry, in the black mirror of the dead monitor. Your soul had left your body and all that was left there, in the room that used to be your own, was an empty husk.

You were so lost in your storm of bitterness and despondency that you failed to notice the showerhead had turned off. Your mom’s feet squeaked against the porcelain, and like a tree in a forest, she made no sound. The only sound known to you was the hum of your own internal screaming. Your cock sat hard in your lap, in defiance of your inner-state, throbbing at you like a rebellious child.

You slowly pushed yourself up, and when there, looking at the world gaining distance beneath you, you began to wander around your room, your cock swinging freely through the air. You had nowhere to stand, nowhere to sit, and nothing to say to make the feeling go away. You had been bested. Bested by the biggest hack you had ever known, and you stood there now, a shell of your former self, an invader from a soulless extra terrestrial tribe, who had burrowed into the old you’s skin and was now inhabiting his life without soul or fire. You were dead on your feet, and the only part of you which suggested otherwise was your raging prick. It still throbbed to the rhythm of your mom’s ass in motion, and the thought of multitudes which jerked off to her. You would never create anything that beautiful. The oppurtunity itself would be one in billions, and following through with its promises another unlikelihood of lesser, but still difficult, chance. You were done. Defeated. Routed. Dashed against stone.

Forgetting where you were, forgetting how you were dressed, and who walked the house with you, you went, with your phone in hand, bottomless toward your bedroom door. Maybe you just needed more space to walk, maybe under the belief that you’d find that square inch, upon which contact with it would bring a cure for your existential horror.

You opened your bedroom door.

And just as you did, the bathroom door rocketed open. You ducked back behind your door. Even still, your hard cock, unaware to you, peaked out from behind. Steam billowed out from the bathroom. And you heard footsteps and whistling, and at hearing them, you hoped they would continue, signalling your desired invisibility to you. It was only then that you noticed your cock, and in a bid to not make noise, you pulled your ass back, pulling your cock in and behind the door in an effeminate gesture, avoiding the sound of your feet against your carpet or the possibility of jostling your door as your mom looked at it.

As you heard the sound of footsteps getting further, you suddenly heard another sound. It was a wet, but soft one, and it came all at once and stopped just as quickly. Your eyes went wide, and, again, your cock peeked out from behind the door a mere second before your eyes did.

And then your jaw.

And then your jaw dropped.

It required no thought, the impulse as written now into the rivers of you blood as the impulse to flinch at sudden and violent motion. Your foot shot out, and, silently, came back down on the floor at the point of your heel, and, as if in dance, the rest of it came down in turn, as silent as a cat through a field of wheat, and the next foot followed with equal amounts finesse.

Before you knew it, you were moving. And not long after - as you watched your mom, completely nude and unaware she was being seen – the spy app on your phone was activated. And as you shut down the screen, and then let it fall to your side, you watched the ass you planned to aim at, moving at all of its speed but making none of its noise, you slowly titled the eye of your camera toward your target.

When the eye had found it, as if it were your own eye, which you had full control over as a matter of physiology, it remained locked on what it was fated to capture now. And it recorded with equal duty.

You sped up in a sudden burst.

And now being close to your mom’s unbroken butt crack, the one which had achieved recent fame in a much more sheltered form, you followed, breathing without sound, moving without noise, and sweating without smell. The fragrance of your mom’s soap and body wash bounced off her ass in a way that you couldn’t believe had you not experienced it in this very moment. Literal clouds of it wafted off her ass, hitting you in waves which forced you to imaging just what those cloud of fragrance would look like had they their own solid color.

The slapping of her feet against the floor, and the music of her whistling, provided what little cover your needed. The smell of her body wash and perfume dampened the chalky smell of your raging prick, which seemed to pull you closer like a diving rod toward your target. Her tan-line made her nakedness feel more real and vivid. And her hair, wild and unkempt, freshly dried from the shower, made her look caught in the moment and vulnerable, which she was.

It was only at this point, when you were out of the hallway and into the openness of the kitchen, that it truly dawned on you what you were filming, and the weight of the realization almost crushed you right there. But realizing the responsibility which had fallen into your lap, something approaching manhood bubbled within you, and a natural stoicism emerged like lightning to save you from any lesser reaction.

You continued on, riding the wave of fate, both its victim and its pilot, eager and terrified, yet prepared, to crash upon its desired shore. Your mom’s whistling only underlined how little she knew of it all.

And then she had reached the fridge, with the door to the back to her right.

She turned to her left and grabbed the metallic handle, and just as she did, you stepped right, avoiding her peripheral like it were poison gas, and, without slowing down even a little, you silently moved forward, now leaning in close. You switched hands.

Your phone was aimed at the target, and just as the target got big within its all-seeing eye, you twisted your wrist, letting the phone rotate around the beige-white surface like a moon around the most beautiful of all planets, capturing its every rotating inch, your mom still whistling all the while, her attention drawn entirely toward the food which fed the shape and size of the ass being filmed.

And just like that you were gone.

Your mom heard the noise. It was like a sucking sound. And when hearing it, she spun around, a sight which would have been beautiful if captured by the camera’s eye. But it wasn’t. Because when she spun there, waiting for her at her 180 was nothing except the sliding glass door that lead to the backyard, which was only slightly ajar, just enough for a skinny person to make it through.

Approaching the door now, apprehensively, as if she feared a ghost, she managed to grab the handle of the door without extending her body enough that a neighbour could see her looking out their back window, and she slid the door closed. And just like that, she was alone. Like she always had been. It was only her mind playing tricks on her that she heard any sound at all. Nothing else.

Outside you stood, bare-naked from the waist down, throbbing in place of jubilee, standing against the wall, the sliding door to your right, the kitchen window to your left.

You were safe.

And, what was more, you had done it.

Hadn’t you?

You always asked that question, always wondering if your camera had shut off or your memory was full, it never being true. Yet now the question had more weight than it ever had.

You should have been alone in your quiet celebration, but, unbeknownst to you, at least for a little while, you were being watched from afar.

The neighbour from the house to your house’s left stood on his backyard stoup, glaring over his fence as you stood there, your cock hard and unguarded.

When you finally noticed him, he just stood there, staring at you. You stood there, staring back. It was like he expected you to do something to defend your nudity. But you didn’t. You just stood in place, both feet firm to the ground. And because of this, he just kept watching. Your cock throbbed and he stared at its throbbing. And when, finally, he gained the courage or wherewithal to pull out his phone and begin filming, you only stood still there for him, letting him get his fill.

When he then gained the courage or wherewithal to ask if you wanted to come over, it wasn’t anything which caused you to reject his advances other than the most basic of logistical concerns:

“I have something I need to do,” you said, in a voice you tailored as to minimize its chance of drifting within the house. You then leaned backward and looked within the window, seeing your mom’s perfect ass bend over to grab her dropped towel, and then she disappeared around the corner into her room to get changed.

“Okay,” your neighbour said while you were still looking within the house. “How about later then?.” He was having trouble containing himself now, and if it weren’t a confidence that only horniness could carry for him, he’d have been embarrassed by his own tone and brazenness.

You turned and looked back at him. You smiled, and then you turned and opened your sliding glass door.

He watched you as you re-entered your house.

He licked his lips as you did.

“And what a perfect ass,” he said. Then he turned around and went back into his house, eager to jerk off to the video he had just captured. And maybe, if he was feeling up to it, eager to share what he had captured with a few friends.

The story of Ghost and Shadow, how the former made the assist that the latter slapped into the net, became a major part of creep lore. Perhaps its most golden moment. And you stood there, gold metal heavy on your chest, as you stood a full foot over ghost, waiting for your golden trophy as Ghost was given his conciliatory silver, a shining visual example, one which glimmered deceptively in the sun, of your run off or table scraps. At least that’s the way you viewed it.

Ghost had shot a congratulations to you, a sign that he felt defeated, you were sure of it. You couldn’t imagine him being as earnest as he was trying to come across as. Nobody was. Were they? No, no, that was always a façade, you knew that. He had been crushed by you and his congratulations was only a moment of deceptive submissiveness. You would need to offer more to keep him pressed under the weight of your mom’s naked ass.

So when you had sent him a DM, you sat nervous, your stomach wild with butterflies, waiting for his response.

When he messaged back with a yes, you felt like he must have had a trick up his sleeve, but when he came to your house, he came without weapon or widget, or anything else. Could he have been exclusively on a reconnoitre mission? If so, his reconnaissance would turn up little, and, more than that, would be factored into your final stroke of cunning and genius.

Because laying there for him, senseless and asleep, was the woman which had made you both famous (you first and him second), and, most surprising of all, she was completely naked. Across from the couch she lay on, a camera was set up with as professional a rig as possible. Boom mics hung over the couch at ten feet vertical distance, and when Ghost looked at you, his face as ugly as you assumed it would be, you only winked back at him.

“Take off your clothes,” was all you said. “I’ll film.”

As you watched your mortal enemy going to town on your mom through your viewfinder, your mouth curled into an unendurable smile. Your internet legend was only going to grow once this video was edited and uploaded, and again, as if history was made to repeat itself, it was Ghost who was providing you with this generous lay-up. He couldn’t help himself, your mom’s ass being the greatest of all Venus fly traps.

Your mom’s eyes were shut tightly as her whole body rocked back and forth. As Ghost pulled out his cock and began to jerk it off over your mom’s ass, you realized that you could retire right now, and you’d go down as one of the greatest legends of cyberspace. Though you wouldn’t do that, you still had so many asses to film. The supply never ended, and you loved what you did. But even still, you could be sure all the while, that all of it was just an addition upon what had already been accomplished by you. Because now you could be sure beyond a reasonable doubt that you had the top spot. You were the winner, Ghost a distant second, and you could sit at the top of the world, comfortable enough to breathe, and to rest if you so desired.

“Take that loser,” you muttered under your breath.

Just as you did, Ghost began to grunt, followed by a solid string of cum which ejected from his balls and landed on the fat of your mom’s ass.

And with that, you were a god.

2,427 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All


Post: Blog2_Post
bottom of page