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Oil and Water



Part 1: Water

Your mom was target numero uno. And you were young. But you had a strong will to protect her. You were young enough to believe that a strong will would be enough.

But the plans had already been pushed into motion by that trembling hand, and they glided rightward and downward along the gravity of the world’s most precious and desired resource: ass, as if riding the curve of your mom’s.

Your mom’s ass: two butt cheeks that bopped and jostled to the singing of the birds. Your mom’s entire essence was erotic, though she didn’t intend for it to be, nor did she really notice how erotic it all really was. She carried around perfection, along and through a world full of fleshy shafts, each one stiffening behind their zippers, pushing their aching cockheads into the worn fabric of it, whenever in close proximity to her.

That was power. But that power could mutate into a curse at any time. And mutate it had. Right under her nose, or more accurately, under her butt cheeks, and she was about to fall ass-backwards into a honeytrap, one that rivaled the honeytrap of her ass in terms of its attraction and grip.

Let me start from the beginning. Imagine a beautiful summer day.

“Hello, Ivan,” your mom said as she lead you through the front door. The house smelled vaguely of olive oil and the sun littered the table in its glory. “Where’s Olaf?”

“Olaf is just out back,” said Olaf’s dad. He was a always a little weird, a little wiry when your mom was around. Extremely happy to see her. “I’ll go get him.”

Olaf came out smiling, freckled under a mop of messy hair. You followed him down the hallway and into his room, which was decked out in the newest toys and gadgets, which glinted in the window-magnified sun.

While you and Olaf played, Olaf’s dad tried to offer your mom a drink. “Would you like some wine?” he asked, awkwardly.

“No, no. Thank you. I have to drive pretty far to get here.”

“Water, then?” he asked.

“Yeah, sure. Please,” your mom said, blushing. “I’m actually pretty parched.”

He had butterflies at her consenting to a nice big glass of water. It wasn’t the diuretic that wine was, but it would do. He got goosebumps as she took her first sip at the kitchen table. Your mom started the conversation, and Ivan, trying to remain lucid and there, participated as best he could. The pretty timbre of your mom’s voice helped him stay within the auditory reality of the moment, and your mom’s eyes, and the shape of her face, kept him in touch with their shared universe visually. It was easy to live in any reality - auditory, visual, olfactory - that had her in it. Even while thoughts of some pressing weight tried to drag him off.

Ivan knew to refill her glass every time it went half-empty. He was vigilant with this task. If it were to ever go dry completely, your mom wouldn’t let him poor more. He knew that. He knew quite a few little tricks like that in psychology. Things he had picked up in class in Kiev or from the middle pages of some book or other. They never did him any favors. Until now. Possibly.

As your mom yabbered on about her son and his, he only half-sat in that moment, as if one hemisphere of the brain stuck there as the other penetrated a separate quantum reality. His cock slithered and expanded in the mesh of his shorts, just under the table your mom rested her hands on. She took another sip of that precious liquid, which contained a rainbow cutting through it diagonally as sunlight played on her cheek, and then continued on about your soccer game and how she told you you would score a goal eventually.

Its sitting in my chair, Ivan thought in Ukrainian. Every part of her is here, before me. Every part I wanted, she brought it with her. She can’t help herself. She brings it with her wherever she goes. Like a ball and chain. Two of them. Both the same color of the very cheeks she smiling with now.

After a while more - a long while more - of talking, she started to go silent and shift in her seat, each butt cheek cupped by its concave shape. Ivan’s stomach was full-up on butterflies.

She wanted to say something.

Say it. Please. Say it.

“Ivan?” she said.

“Yes!” he said. Say it. Come on. Please.

“Can I use your washroo-”

“Yes!” he said. “Second to last door on the right.”

She smiled, relieved that she was able to ask and that he could accommodate her. She was embarrassed a little bit. She didn’t know why. It just felt odd using someone else’s bathroom. It was something she normally avoided under all circumstances. She had tried for the last 15 minutes to avoid it now, but failed. She stood up. “I’ll be back,”  she said, “remind me where I left off when I do,” and she rounded the table.

Ivan turned to watch her. Her ass followed her. It followed her towards her destination, sharing in her fate. The link between her and her ass was what magnified both. Like some multiplication unto a void or two chaoses achieving order in symbiosis.

Her soft bare feet, delicate and white, under her plump white calves, took her over the kitchen tiles, her butt cheeks drumming on the air in rhythm, down the hardwood floor of the shadowy hallway, passing Olaf’s room where the two of you played (you caught your mom’s eye and smiled as she passed), and towards the bathroom door, which hung slightly ajar.(The bathroom door and the door to Olaf’s room were so close, that you could see your mom’s butt peaking around the corner until she disappeared into the bathroom which beckoned her.)

Your mom stood under the buzzing light of the newly replaced light bulb. The room was bright and without shadow. She fixed her hair in the mirror, embarrassed a little by a tuft that stuck up at a 100 degree angle. She licked her finger and hid the tuft behind another brunette lock. She turned around to see the toilet seat beneath her, and she thumbed the waist of her shorts with both hands, making sure to get her underwear with each thumb.

And then as she dropped her bottom toward the seat, disappearing from her own sight in the mirror, she pulled her thumbs down towards her thighs, and suddenly felt the fresh bathroom air, buzzing and wafting, on the soft nakedness of her behind.

As she neared the porcelain, she let go of her shorts, which were now wrapped around her knees, and she pulled her butt cheeks slightly apart so they would be parted on the seat, she noted a pretty smell in the air. As she rested her arm, she realized the arm rest was some sort of panel. It had futuristic-looking, but still kind of retro, keys with little images on them. What she was staring at was obvious, but it still took time to rediscover what she already knew.

It was a bidet.

“Wow,” she said to herself, pleased. “I always wanted to try one of these.”

She felt weird doing it in a stranger’s house, but she wanted to feel what that cool jet felt like up within that hallowed area, the place where the sun never reached. A phrase that was literally true in her case.

She braced herself for sudden impact. She smiled. She hit the button.

She felt the tongue of the jet lick at her deepest crevice.

“Oh god” she said and pushed into it. She closed her eyes in satisfaction as she shifted herself on the seat so that the stream could touch everything. Each nerve was electric as it was stroked by the focused wet laser of warmth. It was invited and thoroughly welcome over every square inch. It had a personality in her mind. It was male and asexual and benevolent, though it shared no knowledge or sympathy in what it was doing for, and to, her. “That’s really nice,” she said. “I got to get me one of these.” She leaned over on one cheek and put her weight on it so it would stay in place, and then shifted over to replace her other cheek further out from where she originally sat, spreading herself out nicely. She turned the jet back on to full blast.

“Oahhhh” she said involuntarily. She had the distinct sensation that she was being cleaned out, as if the cleaning went deeper than just the dividing line between those two cheeks, but ran up a hollow that went as high up as her hips. This was a revelation. Ever since she was 17, her fingers would disappear up until the knuckles as she cleaned herself down there in the shower. She felt embarrassed the first few times. Especially when her brother’s friends were under the same roof, just in the next room. The way they stared at her butt, fully clothed. If they could see me now, she would think.

She pressed on the spray button, shutting the cleansing flood down with a finger, like God. “I need to get back,” she murmured. How long have I left him sitting there?

She stood up and wiped her butt dry. If only it had a blowdryer, she thought. She pulled up her underwear over her tender buttcrack, and she pulled her shorts over her red cheeks, which blushed with feminine delight. She washed her hands in the mirror and smiled at herself. She had been naughty. She knew it. She felt a little guilty for abusing Ivan’s luxury like this, but she couldn’t help but feel a devilish delight at doing so. And her butt felt so nice, fresh, and loose, massaged to a state of rest. She still felt bad though.

She dried her hands off with a towel and then the very same toes and calves that had brought her that far, had now brought her back to the kitchen where her journey to paradise first started.

Ivan’s eyes were wide and red. Only for a split second. They softened when he seen your mom’s eyes and smile. It was as if he was worried she would come back without them. Your mom noticed the sudden change in facial expression. He was jittery. He suddenly seemed like he had something to do or somewhere to be. Your mom felt extra embarrassed now. He knows, she thought. She felt the same embarrassment from when she was young. Her ass no long felt nice, fresh, and loose. It now felt tender and raw in its place.

“So, ummm... where was I,” she started with, and continued with inane talk about their mutual sons and the cost of plums at the supermarket on Bird Street.

He was clearly in another world almost completely now. So much so that she almost knew it to be true.

“Listen,” he said after a few more minutes of small talk. “I actually have some stuff I need to do for work. Would you mind just leaving me to it?”

“Oh,” your mom said, startled and blushing. “Yes, of course. Sure.”

“Sorry. I don't’ meant to be rude, it’s just that...”

“No, I understand,” your mom said, trying to put him at ease. After all, it was her fault. She should have asked if he was busy before she accepted his invitation to sit down. As her butt left the comfort of his kitchen table stool, she felt its absence immediately and realized she couldn’t afford a toilet with a bidet. This might be the last time she ever got to use one. Her ass hung out behind her as she stood there, suspended on nothing, alone.

“Sorry,” he said again and smiled. He walked your mom toward the front door urgently and guided her out. He glared at her ass as her flip-flopped feet propelled her delicately to her driver-side door. “Please,” he murmured to himself with all the furor of prayer. She looked up at the house one last time, then she sat back in the very same car that took her here. The seat welcomed her back, as if to say “this is the best you’ll ever get.”

When her flip-flop sole supporting her soft, white foot hit that gas pedal, and she reversed, he shut the door.

His disarming smile disappeared just as suddenly. He took a deep breath behind the shadow of his door and then he walked over his kitchen tiles, down the hardwood floor in the hallway, past his son’s room, where you played there with his train set (you met his eyes as he passed. He didn’t look at you so much as look passed you), towards the door of his bathroom, which hung ajar just as before. (You couldn’t see his butt from around the corner).

When he got inside under that shining bulb he shut his door behind himself. He saw his wild eyes in the mirror and he looked away. He looked down at his toilet. She had been sitting there, relieving herself of water. His water. From his tap. Then he looked down at the trashcan sitting next to the toilet. He saw the little tear in the tissue paper, just as he had left it. He took a deep breath, preparing himself for the inevitable reality, whatever it may be.

As he got closer to the can, he saw it peaking back at him through the hole in the paper and through the hole in the black sock behind the paper. It hadn’t been jostled out of place. He almost shrieked in joy, but choked it back last second, making it sound like a sudden drawing of breath.

He got on his knees and grabbed at it, tearing the tissue which concealed it away and emptying the contents of the black sock into his palm. And there in his hands he held it. He then exited the bathroom with it in his sweating grip, and continued deeper down his shadowy hallway, as the voices of you and his son grew distant. As if they weren’t distant already, like they were floating in from a dream.

When he got to his study, he made a b-line to his computer and plugged the gem in his hand, lord bless it, into the USB port.

“Please…” he said, louder than before. “Let it be so.”

His laptop made no response at first. And then beep do da beep bap, the device was recognized. He was one step closer.

“Please…” he said, again, more desperate than ever. More desperate than he had ever been. Asking more of this moment than he did of anyone or anything.

The folder stared back at him, daring him to click. So he did. Three videos stood there in the endless white of the folder, staring back at him. Waiting, unmoving, for his next move. He clicked on the middle file.

A vision of the bathroom exploded with light as if the first act of creation. The dead space in the bathroom exploded with the miracle of your mom soon after.

Ivan’s lip began to quiver. I’ve done it, he thought.

Mercifully, and sweetly, as if everything in the universe pitied Ivan, or pitied anyone, meaning everyone, cursed by your mother’s wiles, the spot occupied by her booty short-clad butt exploded rapturously with her bare-naked ass, which not long after bent over with each of her hands on each cheek, pulling them apart, as she slowly dropped their soft globes on the porcelain below.

“Oh god!” he said, like a man who parched and terrified coming across water between the dunes. It was no mirage, he thought to himself, as he watched the side of her ass, which was now squished between the hard porcelain of his very own seat and the weight and gravity of her upper body. He clicked backward on the video to see it again. That unbroken crack, followed by the spread, and a split second view of her two holes, two holes he had no business seeing. Two holes he never would have seen had he not played it perfectly. “Fuck yes,” he whimpered to himself, almost pathetically. Effeminate and accepting of nature’s fleshy and fresh gift. Your mom had left with it attached to her, while also leaving it here. It was like she had forgotten her mirror reflection or shadow behind. That and her son. But unlike her son, she wouldn’t be coming back to take this away from him. It belonged under his roof now, and nothing would change that.

As your mom worked wonders on her ass with his bidet, he imagined what it would be like to feel that very same stream that he was so accustomed to between those glorious white cheeks instead. He stood up, let his pants down, and started tugging his cock, which was now harder than he had ever remembered it being. “How does that feel, baby,” he said to the version of your mom that he now owned.

“That’s really nice,” she replied. “I’ve got to get me one of these.”

The thought that she’d be spraying herself where the sun couldn’t reach from now on because of his influence did something strange to him. Not only did his cock like it. His heart did too. She did her little dance for him by shifting on his seat. Her ass squishing and bending in ways he could only dream of seeing. The way every man hopes to see an ass they adore, in every state of movement, contact, and shape. She had just done it all.

Suddenly some thought reached her eyes. Her cheeks, the ones on her face, started to go red.

“I need to get back.”

She stood up.

He was delighted to see that the cheeks of her butt were flush with the same embarrassment.

Your mom’s ass dripped from her crack. Water in one end, and water in the other, he thought. It was his water that quenched her tongue and it was his water that quenched the world between her butt cheeks. He had doused the most beautiful woman he had ever known in water like some base wet t-shirt contest.

He jerked off as she wiped herself clean. The tissue disappearing between her cheeks along with the fingers that pressed it up there. Again, her ass put on a show of every conceivable angle and jiggle, each distinct from the last, as all her jiggles, lifelong, would be, snowflakes, each and every one. She then pulled those wonderful shorts up over the goods, obscuring them from the unbroken light of the washroom. She washed her hands with soap, fixed her hair in the mirror, and walked out, her ass disappearing around the corner fatefully. It was the last thing to say goodbye.

He minimized the video. He then copied it to his desktop, and made another copy on his expandable hard drive. Then he made a few more copies on both. Nine in all. On top of that, he sent a copy to his cloud. He wasn’t going back to a world where he didn’t have this footage at his beck and call. He swore that to himself the way a recently released inmate swore and oath to the pavement that he’d never see those bars or stripes ever again. He had found his spot in the sun. And he wasn’t leaving.

After he was done, he looked at the first video on the device, which consisted of him setting up the camera. It was awkward and clumsy as he tried and failed, tried and failed, to get the camera just right. The perfect angle while also keeping it discrete. Whenever he caught a glimpse of himself, as if contacting his dead eyes in the past, he saw determined oneness and a tunnel vision keeping out all around himself so the task at hand could be accomplished.  When he looked at the third video, he saw in himself, as he looked down at his future self within the trashcan, a quiet but intense desperation. A “please please please” of the heart and soul. One mercifully answered.

He then opened up his xhamster account. You and Olaf raised your voices at some strange, sunlit happening in Olaf’s room. It was all rather distant to Ivan. Meaningless, even more so than the happenings of children usually are. He opened up his account, with favorited videos on the side by the likes of DSelwyn and MyMom998. His teeth began to chatter.  Your mom’s image was his to control now. He had her, each butt cheek, in the palm of his greedy hands.

He held her suspended over the humiliating oneness that women stumbled into through no fault of their own, and never recovered from, as time never went backward. The humiliating oneness that came with the wind as it blew up a skirt. Or that hunched in a parking garage, waiting to ravage its victim. The humiliating oneness that came with a war cry into an unguarded village, its men now dust, but then flesh and bone, real, on horseback, free and unstoppable in its expression of complete domination and indignity on its captive and helpless zoo of female bodies, which screams reached the ears of no one who could help, and only those who could hurt. The chiefs wife and daughter, equipped with matching asses, no more sacred or saved than the common tribeswoman.

Your mom would now be another in that line of beauty and abuse. All with one single play, a role of the die, by none other than him. He had done it. He had subdued his target and would reap the reward in proportion with its beauty. Everyone would. Whether they did nothing or not. The great leveling. The means of production in the hands of the common prole. No cock or balls privileged over another and no inch too royal for the pull of the mob.

“Son’s Friend’s Mom Finally Caught on cam” was the title of the video."I’ve loved this woman since the first moment I saw her,” he wrote in the about section. “Now you can love her too.”

“Awww” he heard you squeal out in disappointment in the next room.

By the time your mom and her blushing face came back to pick you up, she was internet famous. Her video had 3,000 views and counting. Her shadow sat on his harddrive, multiple times over. Clones of her moment of benevolent discovery and exploration. It sat on a cloud of abstract ones and zeroes. And it sat in full view of everyone, on xhamster, where it was being downloaded and replicated like a hydra’s head out into infinity. Her descent into humiliation had only picked up in speed with each passing second, and it could not be stopped. And she didn’t even know about it. The ass in her shorts was the ass on a million screens, worldwide. Her giggle at the streams warm strokes within her was the spice for the visual meal that was her ass. Ivan couldn’t have done a better job. Not just with this, but with anything in his life.

The comments underneath the video were rude and crude and wonderful. Each one a testament to male creativity, lust and desire. Each one an image of camaraderie around a shared wonder, which sat and gyrated on the porcelain of their gratitude. Your mom had done more for the world in the last hour than she had her entire life up to this point. She had done what few people, male or female, ever would. She had lived for a higher cause. She had made the world better by existing. And she would rise above the dunes formed by the sands of time, in one form or another.

These thoughts dazzled his mind, which spoke to him in fluent Ukrainian, as your mom made small talk and you got ready and put your shoes on beside her.

He couldn’t hear any of it. It was as if she wasn’t there. As if his desire for the flesh and blood her was replaced by that shadow over in his study. It called to him: “ohhhh,” eternally on that porcelain, with that wet warmth shooting up within her most neglected lines of flesh, even as the real her stood right there with a smell, touch, and taste to compliment what he had only in sight and sound in his room.

She said something. And then when he didn’t respond, she tilted her head. She asked again: “Can I use your bide- umm, your bathroom.”

“Of course,” he said, not believing his luck. “Just let me clean it up, I made a mess in there.”

“Sure,” she said and smiled, embarrassed.

He went back in, and placed the camera right where he plucked it from to begin with. He eyed her down arrogantly, with special focus on her glorious centerpiece, as it passed him in the hallway. He smiled at it.

“Ooohhh” your mom said as the bidet water nipped her, putting on a show for an audience she would never know. Her bare feet kicked at the air as she pushed back into the jet.

Her future audience would watch with amusement as she used the final square of toilet paper, pushing it so far between her cheeks one would be just in assuming it would never find its way back out again, and resorting to using the blowdryer on its lowest setting to make her splashed cheeks dry again. He had done it. He had made her into a sex symbol and a clown all in one fell swoop.

As he watched the two of you leave, he looked down at your mom’s ass. You turned around to see him do it. There was nothing unusual about a man looking down at your mom’s ass, though you had no idea why, but something in his eyes that day was just different. You couldn’t put your finger on what. But you had to protect your mom from something. Little did you know it was too late.

But at least the worst of it was over.


-----------------------------


Part 2: Oil

Her feet were now on the same linoleum tiles from before. But the acoustics were all different. The sounds, instead of echoing off the flat and solid surfaces of that kitchen, hit damp against the cool night air spilling in through the window, and muffled against the flesh of the crowd, and drowned what little body it had left in the alien sounds of Polish and Ukrainian and traditional music blaring from an unseen stereo in one of either tongue.

Your mom looked over at you as you sat on the couch with Olaf and the other kids, silently watching as they jabbered on in a foreign speech. Your mom smiled. Behind her, trying to catch a glimpse through the white noise of bothersome house guests, was Ivan, trying to see in person, clothed, what he knew so well, like the back of his working hand, nude and up-close digitally.

Your mom’s hands were empty and Ivan was tipsy. An opening between bodies had presented itself. It was time for him to make his move.

“Care for any wine?” Ivan asked from behind her.

She spun around to catch his nervous eyes. “Umm,” she said. “No. It’s tempting. But I have to drive home, remember.”

A lump sat in Ivan’s throat as physically as his little device, motion activated, sat in the garbage can in his bathroom. It was collecting filler, the ass and balls of his brother’s, cousins, and friends, and the asses of their fat, Slavic wives. The absurdity of your mom being present, a sore thumb among fingers, made sense in light of that device, sitting, waiting. Crouching Tiger. But to all who looked on through the surface level physical existence within that kitchen, two bodies facing one another among many in all directions, it would make no sense. A mystery whose answer would be lost in time and untraceable.

“Just one glass,” he suggested. His desperation, though not as monolithic as it was last time, being that he was only double underlining his victory tonight instead of aiming for that victory which he already gained and could be sure of, was still a thread tugging at the back of his throat, pulled through a chink in his spine.

He wanted his victory lap, and he’d have it tonight, even if he had to do it weaving through his kin and diaspora, like a thread through the needle’s eye or a jet of warm water through the crack between butt cheeks.

“Okay...” your mom relented, but with little exasperation. His nerves were electric as she watched him pour her her glass. He was shaking, but she hadn’t noticed. When he was finished her glass, he handed it to her.

She was about to lift it to her ragamuffin mouth.

“Just wait,” he said, as he refilled his glass. “A toast to our little boys,” he said and lifted it. He had been thinking about that toast the whole day.

“Cheers,” she said, with eyes bright, and clinked hers against his. “To Olaf and...”

Suddenly she was thrust forward through space and bumped into him, splashing red wine all over his shirt.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, reflexively.

“It’s not your fault,” he said, as he wiped his shirt with his sleeve. “Those idio... they bumped into you.” His fat cousin Vasili looked up at him with Spetznas eyes and looked away.

When Ivan was finished wiping himself, accomplishing less than nothing as far as the red stain was concerned, he looked back up at her. There was a silence as if time had stopped. She looked into his eyes as if she wanted something. Something that nagged at her awkwardly. Could it be?

“So,” she said. His throat had a lump. “Can I have another glass?” She asked this sheepishly, as if she were afraid that Ivan would deem her unworthy of even a grape after she had been so clumsy.

“Oh,” he said, dejected. “Of course!” What was I thinking?, he thought. He had momentarily forgot his lot in life. He couldn’t understand how. It had been in that sad key, no higher or lower, for his entire life. Why would anything change tonight? Why would fate give him the real her when it had been so merciful, magnificently so, to give him her shadow self, which he had no right to expect either? He was the luckiest man in the world for what he had gotten from her, which was more than almost all men, other than those who seen his Xhamster video, would see. why push it?

He began pouring her her glass as he mulled over these bitter fruits.  The wine, sweetly in defiance of his moment, slid down the concave base of the glass, moved along the x-axis of space and time, and came up just slight along the concave incline opposite of its landing zone, before it all came crashing back down in an accumulating puddle, then lake.

Lord, make her thirsty, he thought. He had placed pretzels around his house with the care one would expect from a wartime engineer placing landmines. Lets fill that bladder.

He looked down at her little tummy, peaking out from her shirt. He felt like he had the right to touch it, being his to fill, but he didn’t dare. His bitter lips would never touch the soft flesh around her belly button. But he was content with the store of sweet wine that accrued within. His cock, tucked within the tight embrace of the belt of his jeans, grew stiff just inches from that belly button. As she took another sip and looked out at the sea of strange faces, he tilted his head back so slightly it was barely visible, to look down the length of her back to the ass he adored so. It would get another spin on that bidet it deserved so much. The bidet that was currently being used by Fyodor’s wife.

Down that glass, baby, he thinks.

But instead, she put it down on the counter and went over into the living room.

You looked up at her, smiling. And she smiling down at you as she got closer, her bare feet propelling her from the linoleum of the kitchen over the shag of Ivan’s living room carpet. When suddenly you heard a crash, and saw little brown ropes fly up into your field of vision from below it.

Ivan saw it as it happened. The hem of her jeans catching the bowl of pretzels on the table, dragging it down with her, sending them flying in all directions over the white shag carpet. Before even thinking, he rocketed forward, brushing past his cousin Vasili as he did and proceeded without saying anything to kneel down and pick up your mom’s mess.

Your mom, blushing tomato-red, kneeled down to join him. She looked up at one of the kid’s moms sitting not far from you, and the woman just shook her head and murmured something in Polish, causing your mom to blush harder, look down, and devote herself to the task of reversing her mistake. Ivan faced the other direction, working twice as fast, when suddenly, something, something imperceptible, dragged his frantic attention away.

It was Vasili. His back was turned and he floated near the counter, but his neck was lightly craned, with his one visible eye focused down at the back of your mom’s head. Suddenly, his arm lifted itself and floated over and passed the solitary glass of wine sitting there in one fell swoop.

Ivan gasped. Nobody could hear it over the Ewa Demarczyk number.

The glass of wine fizzed for a moment, and then was still.

Vasili floated away toward the front door and into the shadow. Just before he disappeared, he shot a glance to somebody sitting on the couch and flashed a grin. Then that grin was swallowed up by the shadow of the unlit corners of the house.

Ivan could feel his stomach tremble. He looked back down and began picking up more pretzels, mostly out of inertia over anything else. Your mom, oblivious, was picking up pretzels just inches from him, facing the other direction. When he got his bearings back, he looked up and turned to see who was sitting on the couch that Vasili looked at. It was Fyodor and Krzysztof, who sat there, grinning.

“I’m so sorry,” your mom told Ivan, startling him.

He tore his attention away from the two men on the couch to look at her, wanting to say the same thing. “No,” he said instead, “it’s alright.”

She just looked up at him and smiled, his only rock in what was otherwise a formless sea. His heart melted at her smile. Then she looked back down to continue her work. He followed the length of her back with his eyes until he reached his old friend. It was bent over and big just inches from the feelers of his shag carpet. He looked over at Krzysztof and Fyodor to see them admiring it. Not just admiring it. But taking it in with knowing grins. It was as if they were its unquestioned masters.

And then he saw it. Fyodor’s Ukrainian cock twitched in his slacks, just below perception, but as loud as a bomb to Ivan’s ears.

“Maybe,” your mom said, snapping his attention back to the top of her brown head as she scooped up pretzels. “I shouldn’t be drinking.” She laughed to herself, awkwardly.

The dropped features of his face just slowly, as if being dragged there kicking and screaming, transformed, inch by inch, into a smile. “No,” he said. “I think some wine would do you well, to be honest.”

She looked up at him, as if surprised, then she giggled incredulously. “Well, it’ll kill the embarrassment, I guess.”

He looked over her shoulder at the glass. “Yeah, it sure will,” he said.

The last pretzel found its way into the orange bowl as it left her soft hand. She slapped her hands together over the bowl to clean off the crumbs. He stood up, holding the bowl and pointed at a blank space on the couch by Olaf. “Sit down,” he said. “I’ll go grab your wine.”

She did as he suggested, and he headed to the kitchen with the bowl, pouring its contents out in the garbage can underneath the sink as the unaccompanied wine burned behind him. He then placed the empty bowl next to the sink, turned around, and grabbed the glowing object. He held it steady as he moved, as if it were nitroglycerin. It shook as he held it.

He had an audience who were just as invested in its safety as he was, and they watched on too, including Vasili who was now on the other side of the living room, by his wife.

When the glass made its way into your mom’s welcoming palm, which hovered a foot away from her smiling face, which stood a few feet above her bountiful ass, a collective sigh of relief came from four men. Your mom was just happy to have her wine back, and she greedily lifted it to her mouth to drink, downing it in one gulp.

She felt the warm relief of the liquid expand through her shame-filled and blushing body. The four interested men, as if overcome with an undiscovered empathic dimension to physics, felt the same warmth crawl through their limbs as well. But not just their limbs.

The vultures, named Vasili, Fyodor, and Krzysztof, circled around your mom in awkward arcs as the night went on. The party faded out and out of coherence as it was doused more and more haphazardly with vodka. All the while, their vision, in contrast, only became more acute, like the eye of a cat thinned into a vertical line.

“If you want to sleep somewhere,” Ivan leaned over and said. “Make sure you don’t lock the door.”

She looked over at him, her eyelids heavy. “I’m not going to sleep,” she insisted, her voice drifting, ghostlike, as she did. “I’m going home soon, r’member?”

“It’s just because I might need to grab something from a room,” he continued, as if she didn’t say anything.

They both sat there, amongst the flush Eastern-European faces of his family and friends. He looked at her tummy. It was full of his wine with that little beauty swimming in it. He reached over and touched the smooth skin with the palm of his hands. She didn’t even notice. Then he let his head fall and touch hers.

I could take her now, he thought, as he felt three pair of eyes burning on his head and hers. All for myself. He sighed. Her hair smelled like roses. But it wasn’t meant to be.

He looked up from the paradise that was the tight circumference of your mom’s being, and he looked over at you to see you looking over at your mom. He laid your mom down on the couch and went over to you. “Hey,” he said, reaching out to grab your hand. “I have something to show you downstairs.”

You looked up at him, feeling scared. You had no idea why. You had never felt that way about Olaf’s dad before.

“Come on,” he said.

You grabbed his hand reluctantly. As he took you towards the basement door, the two of you passed the garage, which was open with smoke billowing in along with the sound of Ukrainian conversation and air from outside spilling in through the bottom of the barely-opened garage door. The two of you descended the steps, into the shadowy coolness of the basement, and then he took you to a corner room. Inside was a train set sitting just in the middle of the room, surrounded by a sea of white carpet.

You looked up at him.

“Olaf doesn’t like people playing with his train set,” he said. “But I figured you’d like to.”

Something didn’t feel right. “No thanks,” you said.

“No really,” he insisted. “He’ll never know. He’s too busy upstairs with his other friends.” You kept staring back up at him.

“Well,” he said, eyes wide. “Go on.”

You wouldn’t move.

“I’m telling you you can play with it,” he said. His fingers were pressed harshly into your back.

“But,” you said. “I don’t want to.”

“I said you can.”

“I know, but...”

“Go and sit.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“But...”

“NOW!”

You went to turn around to run passed him. Instead, he grabbed you by your shoulders and shoved you in. You fell forward, knocking the train off of its track. The sounds of that carnage masked the sound of the door closing behind you, but the sound of the door locking reached your ears loud and clear.

You got up and ran to the door and frantically worked at the knob. When you realized you were stuck there, you sat and listened to the muffled noises of Polish music vibrating through the ceiling above you.

When Ivan got back upstairs, he looked over at the couch and a sudden terror struck him. It was empty. A soft indent sat in the cushion in the shape and size of your mom’s bottom. He could recognize its shape anywhere. He knew it like the back of his own hand. He knew it better than she did. He looked down the hall to see every door was open. Every door except one. The door to Olaf’s room.

He ran down to the door and grabbed the knob, only to realize that it was locked. No, he thought. They started. He pictured Vasili behind her soft ass, plowing into it greedily. His Ukrainian hips and pelvis cradling her soft American ass. The thought filled him with the delight of its forbidden fruit, soft and fleshy and rippling on impact. He had to see it.

He looked down the hallway, toward the living room, to make sure nobody was looking. And then he turned to his son’s door and took a deep breath. He started knocking. He heard shuffling in the room and a hand touch the knob. He let go and looked down at it turn slowly to the right beneath him.

Suddenly the door opened.

It was Olaf.

“What?” he said, looking up at his dad.

“N-nothing,” Ivan said.

Olaf turned around and went back to his friends circled around his Nintendo Switch and his flat-screen TV.

Ivan watched them for a few seconds, confused. When one of Olaf’s friends turned around and looked up at him, expecting something, Ivan regained his sense and shut the door.

He was at a loss. He turned over to look down back at the living room, and he saw Krzysztof ’s wife going to the garage for another smoke, but when she grabbed the door handle, she tugged on it, and was surprised to see it wouldn’t move. After a few more tugs, some knocking, and a few periodic calls of “cześć, kto tam jest,” she just shrugged her shoulders and headed to the backyard.

The garage! thought Ivan. He walked rapidly over to the garage door and grabbed the handle, hoping against common sense and established empirical fact that it would open. He turned the knob, and the obstacle that stood in the way of the bolt also sat inside his throat. He turned around and saw that your mom still wasn’t there, though the impression left by the weight of her marked her absence, and neither were Vasili and his two friends.

He imagined their three naked lower halfs around the golden egg of your mom’s bare behind. He thought of his motion-activated camera in the bathroom trashcan, collecting less than nothing. He almost collapsed to the floor, but held himself up by the garage door’s knob. He couldn’t even hear what was happening within over the loud music blaring from his stereo by the sliding glass door of the backyard. He knew his cousin and his friends were putting her to good use. To better use than she had ever been used before. Or at least that’s what he was imagining was happening.

She’s mine to see, he thought in his native tongue. I was meant to see her like this. He thought of her ass blessed by the gyrating hips of his motherland and he wanted to weep. He could smell the garage through the door. The steel. The rust. The oil. The cool air wafting in from underneath the garage doo-

That’s it!

It had hit him all at once. He rushed for the front door, checking that his phone was in his pocket. It was.

The cool night air, the same that was spilling into his garage, now surrounded him. The sound of the party and Ukrainian standards were drowned out now by brick and drywall. The light, just as he wanted it to be, spilled out from the four inch gap at his feet. He got on his knees, limbs rattling as he pulled out his phone. He looked at its face. It had 67% battery life. Thank God it did. He turned on his camera app. He hit record.

He lowered his phone.




He dropped it on the concrete of his driveway. “Oh god,” he whispered to himself. He picked up the phone again and turned it toward what he half-believed could only be a wonderful dream.

Sure enough it was there. For real. The flesh and blood her. Krzysztof’s distinctly Polish cock expanded in her face, excited by what it had there. He grabbed her head, depriving Vasili of the warmth of her mouth, and then positioned himself to thrust inside, and after doing so, he groaned in ecstasy at the feeling of his twitching cockhead at the back of your mom’s throat.

Fyodor sat below, enjoying her English insides. Your mom’s sweetness gripped his thick cock and welcomed him deeper within her wet goodness. Vasili’s pill, a Trojan horse, that let any and all invaders in, swam through her freely, making her pliable and loose.

Ivan’s heart beat so loudly, he half-expected they’d hear it from inside. He unzipped his pants with his left hand and let his aching cock free in the night air. The cool breath of it nipped at his thighs and testicles, only adding to what must have been adrenaline shaking him otherwise. His teeth chattered and every muscle ached with electrical current.



Your mom’s English body was being invaded by bodies of different shape and substance. Five in all, two of them acquaintances of loose familiarity to Ivan.  All five of them to no familiarity with your mom. The beautiful bodies of Ivan’s people flocked around their target like crows. Your mom’s Saxon ass pincered by Kievan flesh and muscle. Her Norman toes, pale and shapely, stepped on the same concrete, Ivan’s concrete, with the large Polish and Ukrainian feet which scrambled for prime position, scanning England herself for available targets.




America, the land of immigrants. Hers among the first wave. That of Ivan’s family among the newest to step on Plymouth Rock with those big feet. But all the same, the smorgasbord of what it meant sat before Ivan’s camera, capturing it all, as important as the flag lifted at Iwo Jima.

Ivan’s cock was as unstoppable as the cocks of his kin and kind within. Your mom, his dream woman, was an exposed oyster within, being scraped out, succulent and fat, rich in taste. An extraction point for the sounds of slaps, the smell of sweat and used womanliness, the feeling of soft thigh and cheek and delicate lower back, the sight of jiggling butt cheek, and the taste of total victory.

Yes, Ivan thought. Yes, yes, yes.

He thrust his hips and fucked his hand in the half-light that spilled out into his driveway. His fondness for your mom had finally paid off. It was no coincidence that the most beautiful woman he had ever seen was here now. Who knew it was the hand of the divine that smacked and spread those cheeks with its accomplices in there. It was the only explanation with any plausibility.

Krzysztof, after finishing by nutting down your mom’s throat, amused himself by taking motor oil off the shelf and pouring it all over your mom’s ass as one of the less-known guests fucked her from below. Ivan caught the moment, on his glorious phone, as the oil dripped down between your mom’s cheeks and dipped slowly through them. Her ass flung oil in all directions when Vasili fucked her from behind. Her face had completely disappeared between Fyodor’s butt cheeks, a sight that made Vasili pull out and cum on her oily butt cheeks. The other three guys came on her face. It was healthy dose of cum, more than sufficient. Just the perfect amount for Ivan, who now had the only cock that was still hard.

The guys inside rerobed themselves, and put your mom off to the side, away from the sight of the door. They locked the door from the inside, shut off the lights, and closed it, so that nobody could go inside, especially their wives, who would be appalled, less by what they did to the poor American girl, and more by the fact that they weren’t faithful.

Ivan stopped recording. He could no longer see underneath the door. There was only blackness. But within that blackness, he knew she was there, as out in the mind as the light in the garage. Breathing in the darkness.

He crawled underneath the door.


------------------------------------------


Part 3: Oil and Water

The guests had left one by one. Nobody questioned where Ivan had gone to. A disappearance at a party meaning nothing in their cultures. Drunkenness being the great disappearer of men and women alike. They knew he would turn up somewhere. They just donned their coats and slipped on their shoes and stumbled out the door, down the steps, along the cobblestone path, over the driveway, and passed the garage door which hung open about 8 inches, to their cars, down the street, and gone.

Your mom opened her eyes to soft sunlight playing in the darkness and the smell of flowers and cool grass wafting in among the scent of motor oil and sweat. A heavy slab of flesh filled her arms. Her lower back cradled in a great arm. She looked over to see a naked chest had been her pillow for the night. She looked up, expecting to see him. It was him. It was Ivan.

Her eyes were wide. Her body felt sore. Beat up. Her head was spinning. She must have drank more than she realized last night. She stared into Ivan’s sleeping face. He had been inside her. He was innocent. In a dream.

She smiled.

She pulled him tightly to herself. Open and naked. She wanted her nakedness against his.

And his nakedness against hers.

She stared over his flank at a workbench. But why the garage? she pondered.

She looked down at his flaccid cock. It was attractive even now. And the thought that it had been inside her was agreeable to her. Much more than she realized it would be. Not until this very second had she thought she’d even want to see him here, feel him holding her in the dark. She felt protected. He was kind. He was a good father. His slight accent and otherwordly charms felt dynamic against her middle-American being. She felt good being naked with him. She wanted him to know her nakedness now. She felt the entire white of her family tree over top of her, and millions of years of phonemes. All leading her here, where she wanted to be above all other places. She wrapped her leg around his thigh and nestled back into him, listening to his heartbeat.

When he awoke, it was to birds chirping. When he looked down, he saw her looking up at him, causing panic at first. But then he saw the look in her eyes. And he felt his cock in her hand before he even seen it. She stroked him as she looked up at him. She sucked his nipple, then kissed his chest, before working his way down to his pelvis, and then finally to his cock and balls, which she licked and sucked proudly in approval of him.

His cock was spoiled from using her every hole the night before. Now she was spoiling it consciously. To think he had almost picked her up, cleaned her, and tucked her in the night before, but he had fallen asleep holding her, thinking how nice she felt next to him. Assuming it would be his last chance to hold her. She looked up at him over the length of his cock as she sucked his balls.

Whatever happened last night in their mutual blackout, she wanted to let him know she approved of it. Let him know without saying a single word. And in doing so, she not only made it clear to him that she wanted it again, but that she wanted it in the future too. For how long into the future. She didn’t know.

But he did.

It was fitting that you were sleeping on the ground in the basement, next to Olaf’s train set. After all, this would be your house now. And Olaf? He would be your brother.

And your mom? Well, as Olaf noted, as he filmed her underneath the garage door, her ass was slick with oil. Which was perfect. Because she finally had her bidet.

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