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Sunday Morning




“Are you sure you don’t want to go with us?”


A stupid question. But he asked it every weekend, as if your answer would ever be different. As if the sound of a rifle ringing out, and the sight of a dying buck would suddenly no longer be jarring and upsetting to you.


“No,” you said.


“Okay,” said your dad, amicably. “Let’s go,” he says to your brother, and they head out and into the pickup with their camouflage gun sleeves and jackets. As they drive off, you turn around and head back to the kitchen. On the counter is your mom’s famous Sunday Morning cinnamon buns, half of which were scooped off and into a bag by your brother for their hunting trip.


Your mom stood in front of the fridge. You admired her in her pink pajamas, until she pulled out a milk and spun around. When she saw you standing there, she smiled.


Just you and your mom on a Sunday. Like every Sunday in hunting season.


It was so warm and cozy, toasty as they sometimes say, inside your house. You had no idea how your dad and brother could leave it and go out into the fall chill and morning frost. Your mom, snug in her pajamas, her big, warm ass and her slippers, not to mention her frost-melting smile, it was just so comforting. Just the amount of comfort you needed from a week full of a slings and arrows, customers coming at you like they planned it all together in some small room, an avant-garde ambush, hitting you and separate times of the day, only occasionally overlapping, stressing your introverted mind with questions, requests and demands, most of which you caved to, afraid of conflict and discomfort of any kind.


But being here with your mom, and your mom alone, every Sunday made it bearable, at least enough that you could go back every Monday and keep your chin up for just a bit longer.


Your mom’s pink pajamas, which cupped her large butt cheeks faithfully, were a Sunday staple. The image that wrapped up the spirit of the day into a tight bow. You grew up with that ass, day in and day out, and it was the part of your mom that filled you with the most nostalgia, though you could never tell her that. You remember it most fondly from when you were in the age-range where it would float passed your head regularly, just missing it by inches. Even back then, you wanted to see what it looked like without its coverings. But you never got a chance.


And even now, in your early twenties, it was the part of your mom you felt the most warmth towards.


Your mom smiled at you and poured milk into her Sunday morning tea. You held your hand behind your back as you watched her sip it. After her first sip, she at looked at you and said “enjoy being young. At my age, tea seems to make me sleepier instead of waking me up.” She snorted, then took another sip.


You just smiled back at her, a smile cozy enough to meet a tenth of her ass’ potential.

After she was done her tea, she put the mug down on the coffee table, and she yawned. She laid down on her back, staring up at the ceiling, blemished with many individual rays of soft light through the slats in the blinds. The day was soft and fluffy, but much like your cozy smile, your mom’s ass had all the coziness of the day wrapped up into one single point in space and time and multiplied within it. Each cheek a world of lush coziness.


The blue velvet was working. You’ve heard stories of tolerance building, but you had yet to see a manifestation of it in your mom yet. Falls season after fall season, the effect was always the same, in strength and duration, and even the predictability of its onset.

You pulled out your phone and began texting.


Your mom looked at you, quizicly through the double-cloudy haze of the sleepiness of the day combined with the fuzzy onset of the blue in her system. “Who are you texting?” she asked, with her forearm on her forehead.


“Just my friend from work,” you said as you kept your thumb going toward its purpose.

“A friend?” she said, dreamily, her voice devoid of solid form, “Oh, is he coming by… today?”


You smirked as you looked down at your phone and hit send. “Yes he is, mom.”


“Oh,” she said. Her eyes were closed now. “It’ll…. it’ll be nice to meet him.”


You laughed to yourself. “You guys have already met.”


Your mom didn’t reply, she just sat there like a soft statue, her feminine forearm on her inert head.


You continued: “You’re more familiar with him than you’ll ever know.”


There was a knock at your door.


You walked over through the silent living room, the rays of light dancing on you, as you were the only thing in motion in the entire house, everything else inanimate, waiting to be acted upon. Defenseless.


You opened the door and let the young man in. He took off his coat. “Sorry I’m a bit late. My ex came by to pick up her stuff and she tried to scream my ear off.”


“No,” you said, “you’re right on time.”


“I’m a little pissed off,” he said, as he hung his coat on your rack where your brother’s usually hung. “Good thing she came today. At least I’ll get some stress relief after the whole thing.”


He walked into your living room, right to the usual spot. He stood there, looking down at your mom as he removed his pants. The feeling of deja vu never got old. Every Sunday, every weekend, for every week in buck season, for the last 4 years. The feeling was the same. The funny feeling like he had never left, or like this had never happened before, but in a barely-remembered dream you burst out from the cloud of this morning.


He, pantsless now, as he was on every day at this point, approached your mom and flipped her over, leaving her pink, soft ass up in the air. And when he removed it from its bunny-like prison, it was as if you had seen it for the first time again. It was as if you hadn’t seen it nude like this dozens of times before. It was as magical this time as you thought it would be to see it all those years ago, more than 4, when you couldn’t see it at all.


And he gave it that ole’ familiar smack, that bottle against the hull of the ship, sealing the flavor of its fate for the next few hours.


Your removed your pants and sat on the opposing couch, the softest place in the house, next to… well, you know. You sunk into it like a bed of cotton candy.


Your pantsless coworker, who earlier this week referred to your mom as Jenine (it took you a full minute to realize who he was talking about), positioned himself with the third most comfy place in your house beneath his naked backside, and he grabbed the first most comfy point of comfort and he lowered it over his dick, and let it slide down until… yep, he was all the way in.


And even that, seeing 7 or 8 inches of the insides of your mom being filled by such matter-of-fact sturdyness, felt like the first time. It was a hard truth, manifesting its solid and rigid self within your mom’s person, getting in deep in a way that would be felt but never remembered.


You and your brother were always such opposites, conspicuously so. And while he enjoyed spending his Sunday in a pickup truck with the heater barely working, next to your dad, amidst the smells of used shell casings, cigarette smoke, and black coffee, you enjoyed being here, home, sitting near your mom, with your lower back on a throw pillow, with the smells of tea, fresh cinnamon buns, and cotton Slippers over boots.


And while your brother sat in a world of a constantly purring engine and the occasional sonic boom of gunshot blasts, you sat in an equally familiar world of the soft tap-tap-tap of your mom’s big and inviting ass over the flesh of your coworker.



The perfect way to spend your Sunday morning.

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