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“Do it!” he said, before hitting you again.

“Agghhh!” you cried, a plea for help heard by no one but the two who tormented you and the trees that watched. You clutched a fistful of dead leaves in your palms, a futile effort to stop the pain that exploded in you as one of their boots hit your stomach. Always your stomach. So it wouldn’t leave a bruise, and nobody could see. That way you couldn’t tell anyone even if you wanted to.

One of them started laughing. A distinct high-pitched laugh. This caused you to cringe. You knew what that laugh meant. He had just gotten an idea.

“Let’s shove leaves up his ass!”

“No, no, no, don’t!” you begged.

“Ha ha ha. Let’s do it.”

You felt the cold air invade your nether regions as they lost the warm comfort of your pants and long johns. “Please don’t!” you screamed. You gritted your teeth as you felt the ice cold, dry leaves up against your bare butt crack. You gritted your teeth as the tears flew out. “Okay! Okay! I’ll do it. Stop!” you wailed.

And just then, you felt the leaves drop. They let go. And that’s when the tears really came.

Your mom’s face flashed in your mind. You could hear her whistling behind the bathroom door as the steamy water ran. What happened behind that door was never anything you had to pay any attention to.


His boot hit you in your bare testicles.

It was a solid second before it registered. You fell face first into a pile of leaves, biting into them as the pain finally came, radiating from your testicles, all through your thighs and, worst of all, in your stomach, as if you were violently ill.

One of them flipped your over by your ankles and pulled your legs apart, giving the other one the undefended bullseye he was looking for. He lifted his foot. You cringed.

As he stood there, his foot suspended in striking position, he asked, “you swear?”

And without a moment’s notice, your mom’s worth and dignity meaning nothing to you now, 16 years of unconditional love meaning nothing to you when weighed up against the coming pain, just for that one second, you said “yes! Yes! I’ll do it, I swear!”

They let you go.

And you knew then that it was over. The pain would stop. And you thanked god you had finally escaped it. You didn’t care what you had to do. You felt no shame. At least not yet. You would have done anything to escape the feeling of that booted foot being driven into your testicle. But after getting up, and walking off, with the sound of them taunting you in the distance, and the fear of any pain to come distant with them, it all finally hit you.

And the tight, warped feeling in your stomach from having your testicles kicked-in was nothing compared to the shame of what you agreed to under duress. The lump in your throat was as big as the new lump in your pocket. You didn’t cry, so much as scream into the cool bark of the tree next to you.

You ended up getting home 45 minutes after your usual time, having to take while to dry your eyes so your mom wouldn’t notice. It apparently worked.

“Hi sweety!”

“Hi mom,” you said, finding it impossible to look into her eyes.

Then in a completely different tone of voice, almost giving you whiplash, she said “are you okay?”

Your eyes shot up and met hers, big and blue and full of concern. She could see it radiating off of you, dry eyes or not, that you weren’t okay. A woman’s instincts were like magic. The love and concern they have for their sons even more so. And you could see that magic in every inch of her bone structure, and the expression it wore.

You looked down, your eyes just catching the shape of her breasts in passing as you did. They’re just breasts, you thought to yourself. They’re not my mom, and my mom isn’t them.This meaningless platitude bought you enough time and emotional fortitude to give you the strength to offset your mom’s suspicions.

You looked up at her, confidently, and said “Nothing’s wrong. I’m doing great, mom,” with a face almost as pretty as hers, in a quaint and geeky sort of way.

It must have worked. The sense of relief that radiated from her was infectious, so much so that your trouble started to evaporate, for a mere second or two, before rushing back as you passed her and headed for the bathroom.

Your eyes were red as soon as you closed the door behind you, and because you couldn’t remove the knot from your throat, you removed the one from your pocket instead. Then you removed the black sock from your foot and placed the knot from your pocket within it, positioning its lens so that it peaked through a tiny hole in the sock.

You emptied out the laundry basket halfway, and then put the sock inside, so that its hole lined up with the hole on the side of the basket(the basket was made of plastic and was made with holes inches apart from eachother). You then covered it all in the top layer of clothes delicately so as to not disturb your perfect set up. You wiped tears from your eyes. They were subsisting for now. The technical aspects of what you were doing were enough to keep your mind off things. In other words, doing exactly what you feared doing strangely helped to relinquish the fear and horror of actually doing it.

That fear and horror came back as soon as you got on your knees and looked into the sock to make sure you got a good angle. It was filming, and it had just caught you looking into its existence. Not that there would be any doubt or obscurity about who planted the tree to those who were lucky enough to catch its falling fruit. Your bullies were sure to make sure everyone knew it was you, and make sure everyone knew it was them who made you do it. But it was just the thought of your face, perfectly framed and captured, your tongue between your lips in concentration, which would preface the atrocity you were about to give everyone, that really made you upset.

After you were done, you just stood up and stood there for a second, your set up as real as ever, only below you now, You suddenly sucked in air, then you held your hand to your mouth in response. Tears falling down to warm your knuckles.

You turned around, and with one bare foot, headed to your room, where you shut the door, the change in scenery as subtle as a kick to the balls. You buried your face in your pillow.

You skipped dinner that night, assuring your mom that you ate something before you came home and weren’t hungry. You didn’t leave your bed until the next morning.

You woke up to the sound of your mom whistling, It had all the beauty of a song from a nightingale. It made you smile. But when you realized that the whistling was muffled by the weight of the bathroom door, and and all the warm, damp air contained within, the newness of this morning hit you in the gut like a sudden boot.

You hated yourself more than anyone else in that instant.

You should have taken that beating like a man.

But would you have been able to?


Would you have been able to do it twice?


How about three time? Maybe four?

But you had to try, right? Face the beating and its inevitability and the inevitability that you would eventually give in, or they would eventually win in another way, just so that you could know that you tried.


Or maybe there was only you. Maybe you were wrong to put up any fight at all and not just give them what they wanted from the jump. What difference would it make? The pain would be less, but the outcome would be the same. And then you could at least own what you did.

But thinking this way wasn’t the same as feeling it. Your emotions were at war with you now. And as psychological warfare against your cold, hard solipsism, they screamed in your ear while holding up images from your youth. Images of your mom on your birthday, blowing out the candles with you, or slaving over the stove, trying to make you a meal. The feeling of her hand guiding yours as she helped you with your homework, The feeling of her hand on your lower back as she pushed you off down the street and you pedaled and pedaled and finally you could feel the bike staying upright, and the freedom you’ve felt, unlike any before, and you turned around to see her smiling face, reflecting your excitement back at you, reliving all that lost joy through you.

And then your foot slipped off the pedal. And you slipped forward. And your balls hit the handle bars. And you fell over, screaming in pain as her expression dropped, and was replaced by yours, feeling every ounce of you pain in the testicles she never had.

And then you saw your naked testicles in the cold air, the leaves at your side. And those giant timberland boots, winding up, ready to stomp.

The shower had stopped and your mom was just finishing up. When the bathroom door opened up, and the warm steam tumbled out, you ran into the bathroom just as she left it. Her double D bra was at the top of the laundry basket stack. You threw it all aside and reached in for the camera, having trouble finding it as first, but taking a sigh of relief as you felt its stiff presence, all wrapped in black cotton, in your trembling fingers.

You brought it to your room and shut your door. You had to be quick. School was only an hour off, and you didn’t want to think about what they would do to you if you were late.

You couldn’t plug the knot in your stomach into your PC, so instead you plugged in the knot in your hand.

You wasted a solid minute staring at the video file, afraid to click. Afraid that you failed, and even more afraid that you succeeded. You double clicked. The first thing you saw was spiraling light and then a muffled darkness, until a pinhole of light came into frame, and then two fleshy thumbs tore that pinhole wider, and then more wild movement until finally all movement stopped as the camera was cradled by a high chair of clothes. Through the circular black frame of the sock, you could see your shower almost perfectly. You trembled at the sight. Then another major vibration, sinking the camera only slightly, but, if anything, only making your view of the shower better.

You kept your tongue in between your lips as you watched your past-self, the invisible cameraman, doing his work, hoping he’d succeed. All blissful loss of concern that came with the logistics inherit in the moment faded as your own face, just 15 hours ago, came into view, tongue between his lips like you were doing now.

You gasped at seeing your worst enemy face to face. And as if he felt the same seeing you, his bottom lip quivered before he disappeared from sight. Now only his kneecaps were visible. A few drops of water landed on them before he turned and left the room.

And then suddenly, and without warning, the feed did a jumpcut to the next instance of motion detection. Your mom’s pajama-clad ass came into view. And in no time at all it became her panty-clad ass. And then, last but definitely most as far as the dueling fates of your testicles and soul were concerned, your mom’s bare ass.

You involuntarily sucked back air. A kaleidoscope of hellish imagery did a waltz through your mind. Those two grinning faces. That distinct, hellish laugh, their twinkling eyes as your mom’s ass was reflected into them.

You could barely see your mom’s newly bared tits through the tears. She hopped into the shower, one leg at a time, giving a great view of her in-motion ass and her swinging breasts. She turned on the shower with one hand in front of her and slightly backed off at its unwelcome chilliness. Then she waited for it to adjust, a moment nobody was supposed to see, before plunging herself into the steamy gravitation pull that existed between the showerhead and the bottom of the tub. The same gravitational pull that had her tits swinging so pleasantly and her feet making such music against the inner curves of the tub.

She soaped herself up, causing you to cringe, reminded of the comments they made about your mom’s soapy body.

Why couldn’t it just be a rinse? Just for today? Just so they wouldn’t have the satisfaction?

When your mom lifted each breast to scrub underneath it and even passed her hand between her two hungry butt cheeks you hit your bed with your fist. You wanted to hit your computer, but you were afraid you’d damage the camera and the footage with it.

Your mom spun around a few more times, indeliberately, in her ballet of ignorance and unaware freedom from all worldly vice, wrapping circles of invisible delight around herself until it squeezed her tightly by her waist. Your mom’s hair, done up to avoid the water, was cuter than you’d ever seen it.

Why!? you mouthed to yourself through your red, puffy face. They were getting the show of a lifetimes.

Suddenly, mid-twirl, your mom’s eyes stopped twirling with her, and they stayed in place, causing the rest of her, once catching the memo, to slow down and face her point of interest.

Which was…


it was you.

She looked into your direction. Your face. Your soul. And before the logic of that being false truly hit you, the look on her face cleared that notion first. It wasn’t a look of terror, or realization. It was a look of confusion. And then of concern. And then a look of subtle-terror. Not terror for herself. The jig wasn’t up. At least not up to the point everything currently had accelerated to. No, it was the subtle terror she felt whenever you came home walking strangely or hiding your eyes from her. You recognized that look from seeing it one too many times. The look you’d do anything to avoid. The look that hurt you more than phsycial pain itself.

Because what she saw, sitting on that black sock, wasn’t the smoking gun you at first feared she’d seen. No. What she saw was the smoke in the distance, not realizing that the fire was already there. She saw the leaves on your sock. And wild images of how they got there danced in her head, as she presented herself perfectly for the invisible eye just centimeters to the left of that leaf.

And as you looked at her, feeling like you failed as a son, she looked at you, feeling like she failed as a mother. Your helplessnesses danced on the same stage, under the same hot spotlight, knowing there was nothing they could do. Your mom saw them, without even knowing who they were. An approximate image of who these boys were. And somehow, she knew there was two of them. That woman’s intuition could do wonders. It could even bring her a few steps ahead, even while she was ultimately a dozen behind.

When she regathered her bearings. She finished off, wiped down the shower, giving her audience a perfect view of that bent over ass, and she exited stage right.

The one bittersweet moment came to you as you ejected the camera and pocketed it, ready to head to school and face whatever it had to bring you. Things weren’t as hopeless as your mom seemed to feel they were. She could help you with your bully problems. In actuality, she already had.



You felt his hand in your pocket and the camera was removed. You just kneeled down on the ground, gasping as the entire lower half of your body exploded with pain.

Everyone there laughed. All 8 of them.

“My mom’s not going to be home tonight,” the one who kicked your testicles said, “I’m throwing a party tonight. Bring your popcorn. It’s movie night.”

The guys cheered and high-fived. Their young glee palpable. Pulling one over on a fully-grown adult woman was something they never experienced before. Sure, they stole a few things from some female teachers, made them contemplate their life direction, and even shoved tennis balls into their exhaust pipes, but now they held the naked image of one of their peer’s moms in their hand. The hottest of their peers’ moms. They had picked the right kid to make life hell for. Some kids tore the wings off of flies, others shoved lit firecrackers into the tail end of frogs.

But that was all generation X and even millennial mischief. Things the rough boys in your mom’s classes did back in the day. Today’s youth, on the other hand, was generation Z, and they had the power to do things your mom’s classmates could only dream of. And just as your mom passed the period where she was susceptible to such indignities, she threw a lifeline in the water with the sharks by giving birth to you. And you just brought the sharks with her into her boat, where she should have been safe.

The other tormentor, having gotten what he wanted from you, grabbed you by the back of of your head and pushed you into a few desks. The only reason why the other one kept all the other kids back was because he knew that they didn’t know about the no-bruises rule. So instead they all watched as their friend fed shots to your unguarded stomach (your hands were protecting your balls.)

That night, you showed up to the place in your dress shirt. Just as they suggested. Your mom was excited to pick one out for you, thinking that you had finally made friends. You tried not to cry as she tightened the buttons of your shirt, and she tried not to cry out of joy, fearing it would embarrass you.

You took a deep breath before you rang the doorbell. When the door opened, you just barely parried a kick to your crouch, and you were forced in. Ironic comments were thrown at you about how handsome you were. One of the guys said “I guess you decided to be fashionably late for the opening screening of your mom’s big break in Hollywood.”

Somebody else said, “two big breaks,” and he held his hands out in front of him as if he were cupping two big breasts which hung from his chest.

Your legs didn’t feel real as you were herded downstairs, between the laughing, pushing jocks. You felt as if no decision or action could be yours. As if you were a spectator within yourself, watching your own actions. You caught a glimpse of your reflection in the metal of a grandfather clock and you were sickened by who you saw, a pig in lipstick, you in your dress shirt. It was the way you felt when you saw yourself at home in that full-body mirror, your mom partially obscuring you with her thick body as she did up the buttons.

When you got down into that man-cave of a basement, you were seated between two of the jocks, both with garrish smiles from ear to ear, occasionally looking over at you, excited by your terror. They knew you had captured something good.

As the host plugged in the camera to the TV, his guests began removing their pants and underwear. When the guy next to you was done, as if he finished putting on his oxygen mask on a turbulent plane, he turned to you and undid your belt. You just watched, unable to move or act in any way as he did. Then when he told you to lift up, you did without question, and he slid your pants out from under you. And then your long johns with them.

The only flaccid cock in the house was yours. It was quite the contrast. You were honestly surprised that it hadn’t been sucked up into yourself. The jock cocks stood firm and excited. You looked severely out of place. Your body pale and thin. Your cock soft, and your face filled with a nauseous worry.

What am I doing here? you asked yourself internally. This can’t be happening.

But it was. You had made sure of it. You looked down at your balls. Your weak spot. They were like a button on your body that made you a slave to whoever was shameless enough to press it. Your mom gave birth to that weak spot. If only she gave birth to a girl. Then her dignity wouldn’t be at risk.

Instead, you were here. About to live the moment of your own betrayal.

Oh, I never should have done it! you thought to yourself. Please let me go back. Please let me try again!

But you couldn’t try again. It was too late. You sold your mom’s fat tits and ass out for 30 pieces of silver. You wanted to die.

And then, like a train coming into station, the video started. The spiraling view at the start made you sick, and it enthralled all the others there. And then when all movement stopped, and the shower came into view and stabilized, you heard nothing but cheers from the legion of pigs around you.

You completely forgot about the next part. Your face dropped into frame, and with your tongue pressed firmly between your lips, you dutifully set up the camera while looking at the crowd you had been setting up the camera for. And then, at the last second before your face lifted, your bottom lip quivered while you stared at your yourself in the future, surrounded by your worst enemies, naked from the waist down, dying a thousand deaths, like all cowards do.

You stared back at yourself more than 24 hours ago. Take it out! you pleaded. Don’t do this, please!

But it was all futile. The past had already been written. You already saw what was to come. The jocks all around you, who were laughing up at your widescreen blubbering face, were right to be laughing. They had already won. It was just a matter of waiting for it. Your quivering lip, both onscreen and off, was in reaction of their victory to come.

When your face lifted, and tears fell down to your jeans, one of the guys said “aww, po baby. He’s cwying. Maybe mommy can make it all better.”

You were crying now. Your mom nowhere in sight to even make an attempt to find out why. Though, if she was there, she’d know.

Then, suddenly, and without your consent, the jumpcut came, and your mom’s pajama-clad ass came into view. The cheering started again. And then her pajama-clad ass became her pantie-clad ass. You could literally see the cocks stiffening beyond stiff in your peripherals. No amount of physical pain was worse than what was about to come.

What have I done? What am I doing? Mommy!

You shot up from the couch and ran towards the camera, too quickly for anyone to react. And as it got closer, suddenly you felt the world rotate, and the now you were looking at the carpet, which was coming closer and closer to you by the millisecond.

You had tripped on your own pants.

Your fell to the floor below, only inches away from the camera. Inches away from the camera, and seconds away from your mom making her ass bare for all. And before you could stretch your arm out to reach, you felt an rising feeling in your testicles and stomach. You reached down for your balls instead and groaned in pain.

And as the audience to your clownshow laughed at what they saw, they looked up to see the panties pulled from your mom’s ass, exposing one big, long uninterrupted butt crack to their eyes.

It was over. They had won.

“You’re going to get a beating after this,” one of them yelled without looking at you.

As you looked up at your totally nude mom stepping into the shower, you saw the reflection of a dozen cocks being worked on that same screen, imposed over the image of your exposed mom. She whistled on, blissfully unaware that she was in her own shower at home, and in her son’s bully’s basement with a bunch of raging hard young men simultaneously.

The image was obscured by your tears, momentarily, before you wiped them away. You felt a brawny hand grab you from behind and lift you up. You were now back on the couch again, where you started. It was as if you never got up to stop this at all. As if you saved yourself that beating.

And as the crowd cheered and hollered disgracefully, your mom, turning her hot delicious body around under the steamy water, caught eyes with her audience.

The crowd’s arrogance reached a fever pitch as their adult victim looked at them and their exposed cocks. Two of the guys came at this point. Your mom looked at her audience, first with curiosity, then with concern, and then finally with terror. Terror at the prospect that something dark and unsaid was happening in her son’s life. Something she couldn’t stop. If only she knew how dark. If only she knew just how deep this rabbit hole went, and that she was at the very bottom of it all. She was there the entire time. Her body was the reason for your torment. And maybe if you didn’t try to be hero, her body would have been the end of your torment as well.

The terror on your mom’s face was the cherry on top. They had done more than anyone in their age group had ever done before them. They had a grown woman, with experience and knowledge and wisdom and responsibilities now bested by their youthful ambitions and naive boundlessness. Her terror only spice up the meat in her ass and titties.

And your tears? They were the seasoning.


As the crowd cleared, you just sat there, unable to move, staring at the trash bin. It was full of used tissues. Your two tormentors came up to you, happy, but not satiated. Not even close. They looked down at you. And you waited. Waited for the beating you had asked for by trying to save your mom’s honor. Your testicles were out for them to do what they wanted with, like a punching bag. You didn’t even attempt to cover them.

But instead of fists coming down to strike it, the first things to come to you was their words.

“That’s going on the internet,” one of them said, while motioning back at the still image of your mom’s naked breasts and wide eyes both staring at the camera. “Any objections?”

You just shook your head. “No,” is all you said.

“Because if you tell anybody about this, they’re going to know that you shot the footage.”

“I know,” you said. You were caught now, in a tight nook on the side of a cliff with a two hundred foot drop.

“So,” the one with the high-pitched laugh asked, “are you read for your beating?”

You just looked up at them, expressionlessly.

He began to laugh that ole’ familiar laugh. You cringed. “Because there’s a way out of all of this.”

You knew that whatever they’d ask for would be worse than the beating itself. But you had to listen. Just out of a sense of sheer curiosity, if not for self-preservation.

He just looked down at you for a few seconds, deliberately trying to build anticipation. Then he finally spit it out. “You ever hear of blue velvet?”

You just stared up at them for a second. They both were smiling like jackals down at you. “Yeah,” you said, trembling.

“Have you ever seen any in person?”

“No,” you said.

He extended his arm with a clenched fist, and then he opened it up. “Well now you have.” The little blue pill with a bluejay on its face, looked up at you, more real than any pain you had ever felt in your life. “So… how about it?”

You knew that doing this wouldn’t stop the bullying. That the pain would come to you at some point, maybe worse than ever. You knew that each victory would only embolden them further. You knew all of this. And you factored it all in before making your decision.

Your mom’s naked form, the very thing at stake, stood motionless behind the two men. Her body was so perfect that it not only came across as unapproachable, but literally untouchable. It wasn’t the type of body that 99% of men would ever have access to. And her face above the whole smoke show looked down at you with those wide blue eyes.

You took a deep breath. Then you exhaled.

“Yes,” you said.

You grabbed the little blue pill form his hand. Their cocks twitched only inches from your face as their grins got wider.

They offered you a ride home, which you accepted. As they went upstairs with the bin and looser pieces of underear to hide this party from the host’s parents, you just sat there, in the silence of the basement, looking at your mom, who was staring back down at you with those blue eyes which expressed a level of concern only a mother could have. Her second pair of eyes, devoid of all emotion and judgement stared at you as they hung off her chest.

You didn’t know which pair of eyes were more beautiful. Those that ached with burdensome love for you and weighed you down with the albatross of righteous behavior. Or the pair of eyes that just stared, devoid of all judgement an concern. The eyes that only expressed on thing: pure, ethereal bliss.

You looked back up at her. And she, down at you. Both exposed in your nakedness. Her heavenly softness could now be contrasted with you in a way that it couldn’t before. Because now, your cock was hard.

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