Autumn Jones, as if in a very different reality from our own, walked down Hollywood Boulevard completely unmolested by the desperation and panic which comes when one brushes against the coattails of the famous. She had yet to be known for anything, and though she walked down the busy street with all eyes on her, these eyes scanned over her for her body. Her summer dress barely contained her, her giant tits jiggling within it, their white cleavage appetizing in a way that was maddening to men instead of fun.
Her pale calves gesticulated over her ankles and feet, which stepped elevated by red high heels. The ends of her dress billowed in the slight breeze, just like her spirits. The pilot episode of The Cool Mom had done well enough in the ratings, and the reviews weren’t half bad given its content. The second and third episode crawled higher with ratings, and the press which acknowledged this little show, one tucked within an obscure spot of the TV-day, were charitable to her most of all.
“Great comedic timing,” “Quick-witted, sharp-tongued, soft-bodied,” “The sweetness of Jean Arthur rolled through the relatability of Teri Garr, all within the form of Marilyn Monroe, only more so.”
She carried this confidence, as if she were a star already. If it would have ended here, a woman making a living with her acting, she might have been content, but this was the day when things escalated, all at once, beyond her wildest hopes.
Eyes scanned over her, her tits bouncing, no bra to contain them, within that dress. Every stare, every gritting of the teeth, or whitening of the complexion, was invisible to her, her whole life was made up of these looks from men. But one of the gazes were different, enough to almost stop her cold.
The man in question wasn’t looking at her big chest, at her smooth legs, or at the motion of her wide hips. He was instead looking her directly in her eyes. She only stared back.
He reached toward his chest, pulling up a camera. “Miss. Jones,” he said. “The Cool Mom, herself.”
She was stunned.
He had been waiting there, waiting for starlet Rosa Rodriguez to come out of Arnold’s where she had been trying on new dresses. He gazed at Autumn through his viewfinder. “Just as photogenic off-screen as you are on. Say cheese for Vanity Fair.”
He snapped a photo.
“Cheese,” she said, dryly, a second too late.
“Good, good. Hmm, can you…”
Autumn got the hint, and she began to adjust her expression and body for the camera’s sake.
“Yes… like that. Like that.”
She put her hip to one side, cradling it in her fingers. He snapped a photo. Then she crossed her arms, looking stern, a move she would use on the show quite often. Snap. Then she leaned back, her mouth open, in mock-shock.
The camera snapped, and the thrill each time it happened, rather than abate, just kept growing and growing, the realization of what was happening now, just how typical it was of the Hollywood experience, and the fact that she was being folded into such experience so naturally, it all happening the way she was told it could; it all began to dawn on her.
Her poses then became more extreme, more confident, more daring and sensual, sometimes goofy.
“Mr. DeMille,” she said. “I’m ready for my close-up.”
And with that, she leaned forward. The camera snapped again, obscuring the sound of what had just happened. Her giant white tits, from the shock of her motion, the inertia they rode forward as her spine stopped in its leaning position, causing them to roll like cannonballs, battering rams against the chest of dress. They spilled forth, one of them tearing the dress itself, and came into view, nipples and all, in a sudden shudder and jiggle. They hadn’t settled by the time she noticed, nor did the clicking of the camera stop.
A panic, first nameless, came to her violently, then a dread, realizing what had just happened, realizing after such a great height, such a beautiful moment, what she had just done to herself, so early on in her career. The shock of it, the cruelty, came all at once to her throat. She pulled up her dress, and even that was noted by a dozen happy eyes, and the magnified eye of the paparazzi through his lens.
The smile which formed below his camera was enough to make her sick. She saw the malice in it, and knew, living in this town, the kind of things malice of that sort lead to.
“Don’t…” she said. “Don’t… don’t publish that.”
“Don’t publish what?” he said, taking more shots of her horrified, reddening face.
“Don’t…”
“I know not what you mean, pretty lady.” He began to laugh. “I’m just a journalist. I keep the public in touch with their figures of bronze. That’s all.” He continued snapping pictures. “I give them images carved in silver.” He turned his camera to the side to snap another one. “Statues carved in silver, that way… they last forever…” The smile below, though it seemed impossible, widened even further.
“Ugh,” escaped Autumn’s throat. She almost choked on it. Tears came, but she knew they offered no refuge, no matter how pretty the eyes they fell from were. Not here, this town was different. This town nourished itself on tears, and nourished itself on the torn and ragged remains of summer dresses, bras, and panties.
“Please…” she squeaked out, one last time.
The camera only snapped, capturing the pathetic shape of her eyes.
His smile, unflinching, remained wide. Sickeningly wide.
Autumn’s ass slapped loudly, pounded by the aggressive pelvis of the man, his sickening grin transformed into a sickening open-mouthed ecstasy. “Oh fuck,” he said. “Oh fuck.”
He was too loud for her, their bodies touching nude in an open parking lot, contained in the tin can of his rusting sedan, filling it, almost bursting from its dilapidating seams.
His hand came down on her giant ass cheek, adding to the slap given to it by his pelvis.
The sound echoed off the nearby walls, an apartment to the right and behind them, a store to the left, with the open street before them, where a few witnesses, mostly men, had stopped to watch.
Her body, though hard to see the specific goods, still had a shape so wildly erotic, that to see it jiggle, and to see the sweating embarrassment of the woman in question, titillated them the way this town usually did.
Her tongue was still bitter from the taste of his cockhead, which he had jutted out at her, resting his elbow against the door. “Suck it,” he said. “Suck it… oooh… yeah.” Her face had come down on it, her tongue running over its smooth unavoidable existence. He poked his hips out further. Liking not just the feeling but the sight. “Yeah, lick that thing.”
The cockhead stared back at her, its expressionlessness, just that little line through its mushroom shape, all the more humiliating, another fact of life, like all the others so common in this town.
“Now the balls,” he said.
He now fucked her from behind, kissing her neck with real passion, before rolling back to cruelty and disdain, poking her ear lobe with his tongue, lizard-like, and adding an extra roll to his hip thrusts. She felt his cock throbbing, and she knew what was coming. He groaned with pleasure as his orgasm sent pump after pump of cum into her womb, deep and sweetly. His body cradled against hers, her phat giving to him, embracing him in a way she would never, their bodies working with a logic all their own, in assistance or defiance to their minds.
After he was done, he rested on her, his chest against her bare back, and she kneeled there, her upper half between two front seat, on all fours, feeling his sickening weight on top of her. “And with that,” he said. “Those photos are gone. Abracadabra.”
As she got dressed, he offered her one of his shirts to wear over the ripped torso of her dress.
“It’s the least I could do for the pleasant afternoon you’ve given me.”
She snapped it from his fingers. As she put it on, it falling over her gigantic and sore tits next to him in the backseat, he began to laugh. She looked down. Printed to the front of the shirt, over their lettering stretched by the big round shape of her tits, were the words Full House.
“Exactly as advertised,” he said.
She exhaled, saying nothing. She watched him delete the photos, not liking how closely she had to lean against him to make sure, then she got out without a word, slamming the door on her way out.
“Hey,” he said, before she could take a step.
She turned around to see him hanging from the window. People still passed on the sidewalk and stared out the windows of the apartment, distracted from their lives by her shape.
“You really are like the next Monroe.” His hand then came down, with an open and confident palm, meeting the fat of her ass. He began laughing, flashing her that sickening smile, one last time.
She stormed off, her nipples rubbing consciously against the fabric of that shirt.
Autumn looked down at the ground, her face red with shame. The wind blew at her dress, her pussy peeking out, leaking out, white droplets landing on the stars and names below. She noticed it only too late, after seeing a man stare down at it, his mouth fallen open. She grabbed it and pulled it over. Another drop fell. The name in the star below was…
The car, honking, pulled up along side of her on the street. “Make way,” he yelled from his driver-side window. “Make room for the next big star!”
He pulled off with a squeal.
Neither of them noticed when Rosa Rodriguez passed her on the street, her body wrapped in a new and beautiful dress, completely spotless, and without a single frayed thread or tear.
Amy’s clothes hugged her body tightly. They were workout clothes, that’s why she bought them, and though she couldn’t help but feel she’d look good in them, adding to her decision to purchase, she now stood there, in Sophia’s dance studio, feeling exposed. The image of her on a stage with a thousand eyes, open mouths and palms pointing toward her direction, as she twerked her big ass in front of all of them, had been stored, recreated, and shared, to a million hungry and judging eyes. And the eyes which weren’t hungry still judged.
She stood there, among two dozen other mothers, her body unique amongst them and she knew it, her reputation faring no better, possibly confirming every suspicion they had about a woman who looked the way she did, especially one who came from so far away.
A mother of four looked at her with a side eye, quickly looking away when Amy caught her. She stared at the woman’s profile, seeing in her clenched jaw, not exertion but critique.
As she stared, she felt a hand against her shoulder.
She turned to see Evelyn’s smiling face. “Well if it isn’t the local celebrity,” she said. Her eyes were bright, her irises blue and unjudging like nature itself. “That was really brave what you did…”
Amy stared at her, not understanding.
“Your dance,” she explained. “Most women would be ashamed to do such a thing.”
Amy blushed.
“Like, somehow it tarnishes them to just have fun. And to be themselves.” Evelyn looked at the ground, reflecting.
Amy grimaced, feeling that strange sensation she always felt talking to Evelyn.
“You’re a real hero, Amy. You pave the way for us girls.” She shook her head, then looked Amy deeply in her eyes. “Plus us white girls can stand to see a little Chinese culture now and then.”
Evelyn looked away, looking glad she had said something. Amy stood there, her body stiff. She knew a few of the ladies standing around had heard everything Evelyn had said, and she could feel those eyes scanning over her now.
Eveyln could feel them too, and she (unbeknownst to herself as usual) felt a great relief that they were no longer on her, remembering the time they had seen her tits being unwittingly flashed to everyone at Tony’s restaurant. Amy existed like a magnet next to her, drawing all that shame.
After the class, all the girls sweaty, with eyes passing, giving Amy dirty looks, Sophia approached. Amy nearly buckled from nerves. “My spicy girl,” she said. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”
Amy’s face was burning.
Sophia noticed. She put her hand on Amy’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, Amy. There’s nothing wrong with what you did. We all drink a little too much sometimes. They’ve all done worse at some point.”
Evelyn looked up from her bag and at Sophia.
“Their mistakes just don’t get caught on camera. That’s all.” She gave Amy a hug.
One of the husbands, a bald, fat one, looked over to see the two curvy bodies squeezing against each other. His wife noticed, slapping him on his chest.
Sophia’s embraced ended, and she looked into Amy’s eyes. “Trust me. In one of our parties… what you and Gi’ did, would be par for the course.” She gave Amy a wink and a warm smile.
Amy watched her walk off, beginning to feel, even if only a little bit, better. Then she felt a hand grab her elbow, cutting the moment short. She turned to see Evelyn standing there again. “And at one of my parties too.” Evelyn forced her into a hug, her large breasts squeezing against Amy’s.
The bald man, just before he left, turned to sneak another look. He earned another slap against his chest from his wife’s fat fingers for the effort.
The boys, minus one, all sat in Tom’s basement. Liam, the only one missing, looked at them from Tom’s television set, his image shaking as he filmed himself with his phone.
“How’s Monaco?” Tom asked.
“It’s… it’s pretty fun,” Liam said.
“How are the bitches there?”
Liam began to blush. He looked off-screen at the sound of a soft voice. “It’s Tom,” he explained. “Tom.”
“Tom, huh?”
The boys went quiet.
Liam had told them that his mother wasn’t there, that she was on-set filming.
“Hi Tom!” they heard in her voice.
“It’s all of them,” Liam explained softly.
“All of them!? Do they all share the same phone… or…”
Liam’s phone began to shift, a look of a subtle panic in his face as if her were in his first Monaco earthquake. Instead the image was filled with a beige sky before settling on the face of a star.
Autumn looked out at them from the television. “Wow!” she said. She lifted her finger and began counting. “1…2….3… fo-“ Her enormous tits jiggled with every tally. That’s all of them. Tom, this must be your phone then. You’re the only family in town who can afford phones this big.”
They stared at the TV, filled with the surreal notion that they were only watching an episode of Cool Mom, one which addressed them all personally.
“It’s the TV,” Tom explained, red-faced, all out of jokes.
“Why of course,” she said, her hand falling against her thigh, her tits jiggling when it made contact. “Wow… So you’re saying I’m on TV?”
The boys were all too nervous to get the joke.
“Are you shooting today?” Leo asked, his voice almost cracking. John noticed a slight blushing in his cheek, something he had never seen before.
“Why, yes!” she said. “I am!”
“Um, how is it?”
“Well…” she seemed to be playing with something on the counter at her hip. “It’s very different than shooting for TV.” She looked back up at the boys. “This time it actually feels like work.”
There was a silence in the room. They could hear Liam pestering her for his phone back.
Dylan didn’t want to let that happen, not yet. “What are you wearing,” he asked, indelicately. “It’s for the role, I bet,” he said, to make up for it.
“It is. It is,” she said, looking down at herself. “Look what they have me wrapped up in.” She extended her arm, giving the boys a much more thorough view. “I’m a thief. But not just any thief. A badass, internation diamond thief.” Her buxom body was tightly squeezed within a skin-tight catsuit, her chest heavy, the furthest thing from sleek and feline, her ass, fitting the aesthetic much more purely, still protruded out behind her. A zipper ran up its center, between her giant tits.
“Wow,” Dylan said, his face pale. “It’s…”
“Tight?” The camera tilted. “Yeah, I know.” She looked down at her body. “I keep asking the director how I’m supposed to fit diamonds in here.” She looked up suddenly, her eyes wide. “Unless…”
She shifted her posture, doing so for comedic effect. Her body shifted within that suit, and suddenly, the zipper running across her torso snapped, the suit splitting open, and her breasts, big and legendary, plopped out, giving the four boys a perfect view of them in their moment of humiliating jiggling.
They all stared, astonished, watching Autumn Jones’ wonderful tits settling into place.
Her arm then shot up, covering her breasts. She looked up at them, her face red, what remained of the suit hanging from her hips like a skirt. “Um…” she started. “As you can see, it still needs some adjustments.”
The boys said nothing, only staring, only wanting her to move her arm so they could see what they had already seen, again and more thoroughly. Her arm barely covered a fraction of her tits, their full mass hanging in the open. But her nipples were covered now, something that made all the difference.
Suddenly, a towel was brought before her blushing face. They all only assumed it was Liam. The size of the arm which handed it to her should have clued them in that it wasn’t. Autumn wrapped it around her chest, her cleavage still peeking over the towel’s top.
Another face came into view, this one more astonishing, more unbelievable, than the last.
“Well, hello boys,” the voice said, its voice deep, rugged, and familiar.
They said nothing, only staring at the most famous man in the world.
“I’m Tom Stone,” he said. “Hope I’m not crashing your party.”
“No, no,” Tom said. “It’s fine. I’m Tom too.” He sounded like a fool saying it. He knew he did the second it came out. They all knew.
Tom Stone’s face didn’t change. “Oh, nice,” he said, without breaking a sweat. Only smiling with wonderful charisma. “Us Toms gotta stick together, you know?”
“Oh my god. I love the Operation Danger movies, Mr. Stone!” Leo said.
“Well, thank you. I’m glad people appreciate them. They’ve been a big part of my life. I’m just glad to see others share in their message.”
“This Tom,” she said, pointing at the boys while looking at her co-star. “He’s probably richer than you are.” She looked back down, adjusting the towel, her massive tits giving against it as she did.
“Well, that’s good. I’m not surprised Liam here has friends in high places.” He put two fingers to his forehead, as if in military salute. “It was nice talking to you, fellas. Hope Ms. Jones here does your town proud. Do you want this-“
“No, it’s okay. Bye guys!” she waved at the camera.
They could hear Liam saying “no, wait,” in the background before the beautiful Autumn Jones, tits and all, disappeared.
They all sat there, staring at the black screen, stunned.
Dylan was the first to speak: “Can you believe that we just-“
“No,” Tom said.
“We just saw-“
“I can’t believe it…”
“We-“
“We just saw Autumn Jones’ big naked tits…” Leo said, stunned.
John sat there, in the shadow of his mom’s twerking ass, in the cove that was Evelyn Richardson’s sweet pussy, under the soft clouds of Gianna and Sophia’s nude images. And, even beyond it all, gazing up at the bronzed figure of Tom Stone. And even through all of it, he still understood the weight, big, heavy, and soft, of what they had just seen.
“He’s so fucking those things…” Leo said.
“Tom Stone?” asked Tom.
“Yeah…”
“Yeah, for sure he is.”
“Obviously,” Dylan said. “The guy can fuck whoever he wants. And women are pretty easy anyway.”
“Some are,” Tom said.
Dylan gave him a dirty look.
“Women really like fucking famous men, don’t they?” He smiled at Dylan, then he looked over at John.
John’s face went red. “She-“ he wanted to clarify that his mom never fucked Zzaxx, that she had left that night earlier than Gianna, but Dylan interrupted.
“Fuck you, faggot.”
John sat there, watching his friends shout in each other’s faces, the room permeating with the afterglow of a celebrity’s spectacular tits. He looked for a moment, a tiny sliver of one to butt in and inform them that Zzaxx never touched his mother, but the more time past, the more futile he knew it to be.
His friends back home had seen the video. To them, it had become a parable, a tale of warning, about the soil of America, its corrupting influence on the soul of even the most respectable of women.
“We really looked up to your mom,” one said in Mandarin. “She made us horny, true, but we respected her like she was our own mother. I can’t believe she’s been fucked by a Hēi guǐ.”
“She wasn’t fucked by anyone,” John typed furiously. Even as he did, he faltered, knowing that that was only half true. She had never fucked a Hēi guǐ (n**ger), but she had been fucked by a white man. John had sold her, big tits, big ass, pretty mouth and all, to that white man, was ready to sell her to another. And, on top of it, she had been fucked by her own son. “Look, there’s video.”
He linked them to the video of Gianna getting fucked by Zzaxx and his crew.
The plan backfired. The lack of Amy in the video only implied that Amy had never been filmed.
“Look how that white whore enjoys it,” one said. “That BBC is like some drug to women.”
“It’s like getting fucked by a gorilla.”
“That’s why the girls like it. It brings out something hidden in them. This white whore corrupted her first, now there’s no way she’s going back. Yixin’s mom is the property of gorillas now. Now and forever. They’ve stretched her holes permanently.”
John’s face was burning. He had argued for hours, only burrowing himself deeper within the quicksand that engulfed all with ruined reputation.
“If you ever have a video with your mom in it, Yixin, please share.”
“I can’t watch that,” another said.
“It’s sad, yes. But it’s still so hot to see her get fucked. Might as well enjoy it now that the damage is done.”
“Agreed,” said another. “Let’s just use this as a lesson. Don’t let your daughters move to America. Anywhere else in the world is better. Yixin’s mom was doomed from the start.”
John slammed his laptop lid shut. He stared at the wall beyond it. His mother was vacuuming outside. He heard the vacuum as if it were the droning of his soul. He pushed his laptop against the wall. His face fell into his arms. They stayed that way for a while.
“Everyday they’re messaging me, Amy!”
Amy passed by Tony’s flailing arms in the kitchen. She was holding a plate, not saying anything.
She emerged out on the floor, lowering the plate to a circle of happy white faces. “Enjoy,” she said, lifelessly. She turned, heading back to the kitchen.
“I already am,” said one of the men, a smile on his face as he watched her go. “Will you look at those dumplings.”
Another man, much fatter leaned on the backrest of his chair in appreciation. “I hope that nigger didn’t ruin her ass. I’m gonna need it nice and tight for my turn.”
“You’re dreaming…” another said, setting his napkin in his lap.
“A whore’s a whore. This whore is mine.”
Amy exploded back into the kitchen, Tony’s wife saw her body like it were a sore thumb, not only upsetting to behold, but with a shape too conspicuous to ignore, even when it only moved in the corner of one’s eye.
“Are you listening to me, Amy? What have you done?”
Amy stood aside, watching the chefs at their work, her hands clasped together, waiting.
“Amy?”
Another plate was pushed to the counter. Amy motioned to pick it up. Tony grabbed her arm. “John’ll get it. Amy, are you going to listen to me? I’m you brother. And I can’t have a sister who’s… uh…”
She grabbed the plate.
He tore her arm away. The plate rocked, spilling some of its rice. “Amy!” he growled.
She looked over at him, her brows furrowed.
Another plate clanged against the counter.
“Do you understand what you’ve done? The shame you’ve brought to your own family?”
Amy stared, her face both burning with anger and shame, her tongue heavy with it, stuck to the base of her mouth.
Another plate clanged.
“How are you supposed to face my parents again? How are you supposed to face auntie or our uncles?”
Tony’s wife looked down. Even she was beginning to feel sorry for Amy’s sake, rooting for her to get away.
“It’s on video Amy… It’ll last forever. Video of you being… being…” he took a deep breath, his grip on her shirt sleeve loosening. “Of you being a who-“
“No space.”
Tony looked over. A chef stood there, holding a full plate. “No space,” he said again.
The entire counter below him was filled, end to end, with plates. He furrowed his brow. Then he turned, letting go of Amy.
Amy took in a deep breath.
Tony stepped out to the restaurant floor and his mouth fell open.
Every table, wall to wall, was filled with men, many of whom had looked over at him when they saw him emerge from the kitchen, their necks presumably ready for someone to come out from there, if not him. They stared at him, a few, embarrassed, looked away. Others just kept their eyes on him, wondering at the look of astonishment on his face.
He disappeared back into the kitchen. Then he stood there. Amy stared at him. The chef was back at work, another plate had been jammed up on the spice shelf.
Amy’s lower lip was hanging open.
He looked into her gaze, his expression becoming tense. “Amy!” he snapped. “What are you waiting for?” He motioned to the counter. “Get those plates moving.”
Tony watched from the kitchen’s edge, as Amy’s body slid precariously through the jungle of customers. His customers. Another empty table sat, its surface littered with the faces of dead American presidents, a few hundred dollars worth. He watched as Amy scooped up the money, along with the conspicuously large tips, and he saw the man sitting at the nearest table turned in his seat, his eyes aimed at the dead center mass of her big, red bottom as she bent over to grab the loose coins.
“I found it,” Tony murmured to himself in mandarin. “The golden goose.” He smiled. “It’s been right under my nose this entire time.”
She came back, visibly exhausted, the lines under her eyes only making her prettier, more ethnic looking. Heads turned to watch her go, and Tony scanned over all of them. Meanwhile, the cash register behind him rattled with its usual notes. He took a mental tally of how many more cha-chings that register would make today, one head at a time.
While he did, the now-empty table was filled by new customers, lead by John.
Tony looked at the front door. The line-up stretched beyond it. With those nearest the entrance peeking beyond the edge to get a look at the woman of the hour.
“Amy?”
Amy turned around, plate in hand, brow full of sweat.
Tony stared at her. “Care for some overtime?”
Danielle sat at the table, picking at food with her chopsticks. “It’s so good, hey?” She didn’t get an answer.
She looked up. Her dad was turned to look at Amy, watching her ass, up-close, as it squeezed behind his chair. “Excuse me,” she said, embarrassed.
“Oh no,” he said, blushing himself. “Excuse me.” The back of his hand brushing into the fat of her ass flesh as he tucked his chair in.
He turned and smiled to himself, then looked back up at his daughter.
She stared at him.
“What?” he said, adjusting his tie nervously.”
“Delicious, hey?” she said, motioning down at her plate with the sticks in hand.
“Yeah,” picking up his chopsticks. “Mouth-watering.”
“I bet.”
“And there’s just so much of it.”
“Uh huh.”
“Even bigger than the video…”
Amy looked over in the direction she heard it from. All the faces were looking down at their plates. She stared for a moment without slowing down her movement, seeing a few eyeballs turning in their sockets to watch her go.
“No, no. Not D.” A whisper.
“Double D.”
“No, no. H-cups. Trust me. They’re H-cups. She said it in the video.”
Again, she looked over, seeing nothing, except a pleasant old woman smiling at her.
The male faces all looked down at their plates.
“Meaty buns,” she heard from the opposite direction. She turned again to look, again fruitlessly.
She turned back around to see a patron looking at her with a raised finger. She rushed over to him.
Behind her: “Nice, big, and meaty buns.”
She said nothing, only continuing.
“Sorry,” the man before her said, his arm dropping. He then pointed at the chopstick on the adjacent table. “Can you grab that for me. My daughter threw it.”
Amy looked at his daughter. She was barely a year old. On top of that, her eyes were shut tightly, sleeping.
“Sorry,” he said, grinning. “You know… kids….”
Amy’s face burned red, but she turned, leaning over the table, reaching to the grab the stick.
The man sat behind her, his chin on the backrest, gazing directly into her ass. “Bigger in person…” he murmured to himself.
Amy heard it. She stopped, the chopstick in her fingers. She stared at it. Then, she gripped it, turned back around and handed it to him.
“Thank you so much,” he said, his hand came up, falling against her hip. “You’re a life-saver.”
She nodded then turned and left.
He turned around and looked at his daughter’s sleeping face. “Shh,” he said, his finger to his lip. “Don’t tell mommy.” Then he stabbed his chopstick into a dumpling and left it there.
Amy moved through the mall. She couldn’t tell which eyes were aimed at her and which looked past her. And even among those who looked upon her, she couldn’t tell how many of them just happened to be looking, how many were looking because they found her attractive (something she had become numb to spotting after a lifetime of it), and how many were looking at her because they had seen that video.
After a while, she had thought she could spot who was who by that grin. That sickening, knowing grin. But she even began to doubt that. Not that the grin was nefarious, but that it wasn’t just a reaction against the nervousness she now continually showed in her expression, a constant leaning on the backfoot that men, who usually knew very little, knew enough to take as an example of positive momentum (for them).
As she continued, trying to faze it out, she was then haunted by the distinct sensation of being watched. She had felt that often, but this time it felt more specific, more ominous. She took a sharp turn, and the sensation left her, only to be felt again.
She then saw something in her peripheral. She looked over without slowing down, seeing her reflection in the glass of the storefront windows she passed, with another reflection, one much bigger and darker, following behind her. The spectre followed her shadow closely, too close for comfort.
When she took another sharp turn, then another, almost doubling back toward where she came from, she walked nearing the glass of the opposing storefronts, seeing only her reflection, sighing, knowing she was being paranoid.
She then looked ahead, and, in moments, the sensation came back, then the dark flash in her peripheral. She looked, again seeing the silhouetted figure in the store glass.
She ducked into the next store.
She stood there, looking out, seeing a man, fat and pudgy, passing her by, his phone held tightly, almost as if by eagle talon, in his hand. It seemed to curve, its camera always pointed at her, as he went. A single bead of sweat fell from his hairline. Then he was gone.
She stood there, staring at the place he last was. It was empty.
“Need any help?”
She spun around, startled.
“Whoa,” the man said, his hands up and open harmlessly. “Just wondering if you wanted any soap.”
She looked past him at the interior. She was in a Bath and Body store. She took a deep breath.
“Did you think you were in Dracula’s castle?”
She looked at him.
He smiled back at her, disarmingly.
“No thank you,” she said. “I’m just looking.”
“Okay,” he said, nodding. “Just ask if you need anything.” He smiled, turned, and left.
She had felt at ease then. I’m just imagining it, she thought in her native tongue. She took another deep breath. Just overthinking things. She looked around the store, enjoying the smells, feeling her soul being soothed by them. She picked up a few things, examined them, and set them down.
She then looked down at her watch. “I should get going,” she murmured in Mandarin.
She turned to leave, and as she did, she heard “Have a great day” behind her.
She turned to smile. She saw the man looking at her, and before she could say “you too,” she saw the corner of his mouth, lifted up into a grin. He gave her a wink, and then a click with his tongue.
Amy sat on her couch, the light from without spilling in through her curtains. The house was a lot darker than usual, all its blinds pulled or twisted shut. The door was always locked now, a fact which John had noticed. His mother, usually very busy, only sat within, occupying herself with the smallest things.
She heard a car pass, and she leaned up on the couch, staring out the window. It was only a car at the neighbor’s house. She stared at them through the blind. The neighbor motioned toward his garden below the window. They both talked, the neighbor and his guest, for a while, innocuously. Amy felt at ease just watching it. Then the man hit his visitor on the shoulder, his mouth turning to a grin, and he pointed toward Amy’s house, pointing, likely unbeknownst to himself (he wouldn’t have been able to see through the window glass), directly into Amy’s eye.
The other man turned to look, a similar grin warping his otherwise warm features.
She let the blind fall shut.
Minutes later, she could hear another car pull up outside. She didn’t even dare look.
She heard it shut off, then she heard a car door open and slam shut. It wasn’t until she heard the high-heel clicking up her steps that she felt relief, only for it to be replaced by a deeper, more regrettable angst before those pretty knuckles even met the door.
Amy got up. “I have a bell,” she said softly to herself as she moved toward the door. “We all have bells in this country. This isn’t the Zhonguo mountains.” She knew though that her guest had a broken bell, had had it for years, and hadn’t even spent a single moment worrying about it.
The door opened. Gianna stood there with a smile. “Babe!” she said, her voice as warm as her smile.
Amy stared at that face, saw its body below, the one which had dragged her into such deep pits of shame. She then looked beyond Gianna, seeing the two men on the lawn, looking over, their smiles impossibly wider than before.
“How is my little star doing?”
Amy rushed her in.
“Oh, oh,” Gianna said. “Just like my China-doll, all business. Okay.”
Amy slammed the door shut, and they were both covered in the gloom.
“How does it feel?” Gianna asked.
Amy stared at her.
“Being famous, I mean. It’s quite the trip, isn’t it? I feel like I’m Sophia Lauren or Mario Bello or someone.”
Amy didn’t say anything.
Gianna looked at her. Then suddenly slapped her on her arm. “Well, don’t look so starstruck, babe. You’re a regular Lucy Liu yourself.” She gripped Amy’s arm, squeezing it. “You gotta strike while the iron’s hot, girl. Look at this.” She motioned toward the bag she sported against her shoulder. “Michael Kors. That’s what a million plus followers buys you. Plus the clothes. Everything you see here.” She leaned in, whispering salaciously. “Including the bikini I got underneath.” She leaned back and began adjusting her clothes. “Finally something that fits all this, you know? Oh,” she slapped Amy on the arm again and began laughing. “Of course you do. You more than anyone. Is there anyone more famous than us?”
Amy could think of one other person, but before she could say her name out loud, a phone was thrust in her face. “Look at this. Look at those numbers. That’s just Instagram. Tiktok is the same. When are you gonna get yours, sweetheart? Waiting to strike gold twice?”
Amy had already deduced, even through the slang and the strange American figures of speech, that the things her friend was saying would disturb her if she only understood them. Now, she knew she understood. And she was right. She was very disturbed.
“I could get you in contact with them. They’d be happy to have you. They like… um… what you call it? Representation. They need someone like you.” Gianna’s palms slid warmly down Amy’s flanks.
“No,” Amy said. “I’m not doing it?”
“Not doing what, Amy?”
“I’m not making myself into…
“Into what?’
“Into…. Into a who-“ Amy stopped and shook her head.
“Oh, Amy. Don’t be shy.”
Amy didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t believe she wasn’t be understood implicitly, nor could she believe she was being forced to be so explicit just to get such a basic point across. The fact that she was, was an indignity in of itself, one which she had no interest in playing into, so she kept her mouth shut.
“You’ll have millions of fans.”
“Perverts…” she said in mandarin.
“Yes, millions. Believe it or not, they’re all waiting for you. You’re a natural star, Amy. All you have to do is lean into it. Just hanging over that ledge and… drop… into the hands of your adoring fanbase.”
Amy imagined it and cringed, a sea of feeling, groping hands, rough with manual labor, and hairy on the knuckles.
John lay in his room, listening to all this. Even with his mother’s scant words, he could feel her guilt, knowing it burned now, and that Dylan’s mom was only digging at it further, assaulting the parts of her which had almost healed, however meek they were. He saw his mom’s ass, recalled the surreal sight of its cheeks jiggling as she twerked, recalled the bliss and shame of witnessing it (his mother’s beautiful, shapely body in impossibly sweet submission to the world), a bliss and shame which still hadn’t left him, and he could only imagine how little bliss, and how much shame his mother felt being the very woman in question; and not being allowed, by anyone around her, to forget that fact. Her entire body being the domain of everybody in the world, except her.
Worst of all, the shame she felt burned hottest when she thought of John. It was a fact reflected in her clothing, which had become more conservative as the days past that incident, and had recently gone to a ridiculous frumpiness, making her appear like some sort of fuzzy marshmallow, her body awash, opaque like a Byzantine emperor, tucked deep within a cascade of fabric. He could imagine Gianna’s body next to hers now, shapely and proud, with his mom barely looking female below the neck.
His online fans, the ones who had grown accustomed to his mother, through the videos John took, like a drug, were clamoring for more, but John didn’t know how to find opportunities to create more to give. She could barely look him in the eye, never mind hang around him. And even when they were in the same room, what was he going to do, take a creepshot of her baggy pants? Many of his “fans” had joked that she must be dead. In a way, she sort of was.
Dylan though was beyond joking. He had been texting John nearly everyday, scowling at him when they saw one another, reminding him that they “had a deal.”
Amy was hypervigilant now though, with no window to exploit her in sight. John sat at the edge of his bed, gripping his sheets, hoping that Gianna could change this somehow. But he knew, given Gianna’s attitude, and the fact that she was the source of the entire tragedy, that it would almost certainly only serve the opposite effect.
John’s phone buzzed, and he sighed.
When he picked it up though, rather than seeing Dylan’s name, he saw another.
“Bro. I’ve been watching your mom’s video compulsively while I’ve been out here. Gianna’s been a good influence on her.”
John stared at the text, and stared at Liam’s name above it. He wasn’t sure what to say. “Thanks,” he texted back.
“I want to fuck her.”
John stared at the text.
“You there?” came up a minute later.
“Yeah,” John finally texted back.
“Did you see what I wrote?”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
John heard a smacking noise from the living room. He almost thought his mom had slapped Gianna. Then he heard a few more.
“You just show a bit of this,” Gianna said. “And they pay you to exist.”
John looked back down.
“What do you think?” Liam had asked.
“I don’t know.”
“It’s so easy these days. You just have to slip her some you-know-what. They told us about it in health class. Remember?”
John didn’t need any health class to tell him what he had already experienced.
“Let me fuck her, and I’ll give you the best videos of my mom that you could imagine.”
The thought of those videos flashed through John’s mind, but the discrepancy in the trade triggered something in his genetic code. “No,” he texted. “I don’t think so.”
“John,” was the reply. “You and I both know my mom’s ass is worth a lot more than Amy’s.”
John’s mouth fell open.
The rest of the text read. “Before you get mad, I don’t mean in terms of real value. Amy is gold. But Amy isn’t a celebrity. At least not like my mom is. Offering like-for-like wouldn’t make much sense here, would it?”
John thought about it, feeling a little thrill at the realization that he was talking about his own mom and her ass as if it were just any other commodity. “Can you offer me more than just creep?” he texted back. “I want something more crazy about Autumn Jones.”
There was a silence for a minute more, but for the sounds in the living room. “What are you wearing, Amy? I just noticed this. Are you- is it laundry day or what?”
John got another text. “I got just the thing. Remember this?”
Liam had texted a photo, a film still, a symmetrical shot between cars, their mirrors reflecting hard faces. Between the two cars, a body, voluptuous and thick stood, holding two flags, with red hair spilling over her gigantic breasts.
“Of course I know,” John said. “That’s The Fierce and the Fast 4. It’s the first movie I saw Autumn Jones in.”
She looked young, beautiful, like she still did, but fresher, more smooth in the skin, bright in the eyes, and a little less knowing, less coy, in the smile.
“Indeed it is,” Liam texted. “Do you want some more behind the scenes lore for this photo? I promise it’s good. You just have to agree to our trade. And you have to promise you don’t go posting it to IMDB.”
John approved, though feeling apprehensive doing so, fearing the pull of whatever it was Liam would offer, knowing his own mom would lie in the balance as a result of it.
“Okay,” Liam replied. “Have you ever watched a movie, or seen a TV show, and been crazy about one of the actresses?”
John didn’t reply, only staring at the screen with his eyes wide.
“Have you ever wondered how good it would feel to see one of those women doing something they shouldn’t be?” After some time: “Maybe doing something just as ‘cinematic,’ but something outside of the domain of their usual profession?”
After more staring, John finally began to type, not knowing what though.
Then another text from Liam: “You ever wanted to see Amy Addams, or Sofia Vergara doing porn?”
“Yes,” John texted back, immediately.
“There were a lot of guys on the Fierce and Fast set. Famous guys. Weren’t there?”
John’s phone began to tremble in his hand.
“Wouldn’t a video of those guy having fun with one of their female co-stars be worth a lot to anybody. Wouldn’t that be worth a lot to you?”
John was suddenly quick with his thumbs. “Yes,” he said. “Yes it would.”
“Well… you’re in luck. Because there might be someone you know that could offer you exactly that. It’s just… can you offer something comparable in return.”
John didn’t have to think too long about it, but another thought came as accompaniment. “Okay, but I have another deal.”
“I’m listening.”
“Oh, sheesh. You’re gorgeous.” Autumn Jones’ eyes were wide, filled with the sparkle of genuine surprise, as her form filled the frame of that phone.
Amy stared at her, framed herself on the other end. Her lower lip hung open. John stood aside, watching apprehensively.
“Oh, I’m Liam’s mom, by the way. Liam is friends with your son.”
“I- I know,” Amy said softly.
“Oh, good, good.”
“You’re-“
“I’m doing good, thanks for asking, sweetheart. Um… anywhoo, my son tells me you’re quite the celebrity yourself?”
Amy’s face, porcelain white and pure, suddenly grew red, like white bread soaking up spilled wine.
“I’m not surprised you are. You have a face… and a…” Autumn’s eyes sunk lower, before she caught herself, her eyes snapping up to meet Amy’s with panic. “… uh, what I mean is you have a look for film. So… you reaped what you sow, I guess. Ha ha. But, being serious now. I just wanted to let you know, experiencing it all myself. As someone who’s done a few bit parts here and there, I know how fame works. Here’s the one piece of advice I want to give you. And this is advice I wish someone had given me. It’s.. um… confront but… don’t avoid. It seems weird. Your body…” her eyes sunk low and were snapped up at once again. “Your instincts will tell you to hide. They’ll tell you to avoid. To duck for cover. To leap under the carpet. Please don’t. It doesn’t make the flashing lights and all the eyes go away, but it takes away your… um… your opportunity to… um… sway things in a direction, that you’d prefer.” Her eyes narrowed at ‘prefer’ and she grinned at the corner of her mouth. “Fame is a beast all its own. You need to ride that beast… or…” she seemed to smirk to herself. “Or… be trampled by it.”
Amy stared. Autumn’s face, golden, practically made of stardust, looked back at her, somehow, in reality, only flesh and blood. Their eyes locked. “Thank you for advice…” Amy said, feeling as if she had said so much more than that, saying it with much more elegance.
“Don’t mention it, babe? One of these days, you’ll have advice to give to me… Looking like you look…. I’ll be shivering in your shadow, I’m sure of it.” Autumn began to laugh good-naturedly.
Amy only stared at the image moving before her, still struck by its glimmering starlight.
John couldn’t believe he had a hold of it. He saw the still image, the one representing the video, on the face of his phone. “Enjoy! :)” it said above. He couldn’t believe it could be this easy. He knew he was sacrificing a lot for it, and the image of Amy’s body, nude and manhandled by the awkward palm and pelvis of Liam’s, flashed in his mind, adding to the eroticism of the moment. He, mouth dry, clicked on the video.
It started.
The men were standing around, laughing. Autumn Jones was nowhere to be seen. She was crowded out by their male bodies, white, black, and Asian, standing nude. John recognized a face, and feeling starstruck, felt an added awe at seeing the nude black body below, its sculpted musculature draped with dreadlocks. John felt a bit of communion knowing that his mother and Gianna weren’t the only women who had a run-in of this sort with a famous rap-artist/actor.
Then another face, one extra alive, lit by the spark of recency bias, brushed past a few male bodies, standing nude, his cock hard throbbing, for the camera. “What are you pointing that at me for, look.” He pointed at something to his left. The phone camera swerved, and, all at once, Autumn Jones sat riding atop another famous cock. The man’s head was hanging off the mattress, his eyes almost completely rolled back in bliss, as Autumn’s body, thick like cream, rode his cock, gyrating on it so thoroughly her ass and thighs jiggled.
“Come around,” he could hear Tom Stone saying off camera, seeing his hand guide the cameraman.
The shot rotated around the action, Autumn’s tits bouncing off her torso and against each other while the crowd of at least a dozen naked men cheered and encouraged it.
The camera found her opposite end, found her giant ass, big and glowing, as it bounced off those equally famous testicles. John, hard as a rock, felt a strange distance from that ass, knowing that it belonged to Autumn Jones, but not feeling as if it could. As if the fame of her face, which came from her familiarity, only worked to contradict to fame of her nude body, which had never been seen before. A quick thought flashed in John’s mind, one regarding his own mom’s fame, and how it pertained to nudity. He felt a sudden thrill, a sudden horror, and he let the thought drop from his mind, instead diving into the joy of seeing Tom Stone, his big white cock, coming in with assistance from E-Mac’s, coming directly for Autumn’s smiling face.
“Two flavors in one,” she said. “Whose cock do I gotta suck to get three?”
Kyle Shen, the kung fu artist, came in with his own ‘flavor,’ it depressingly smaller than the other two.
Autumn didn’t seem to mind. She let Tom Stone’s cock fall from her lips and nipped at Shen’s with all the same eagerness as was previously shown. E-Mac pushed his cock against her cheek aggressively, pushing into it as Shen’s cock pushed her cheek from within. Tom Stone leaned in awkwardly, his butt cheeks tensing for it, as he slapped his cock on Autumn’s head.
John was in bliss. The arousal, the value of the footage itself (Liam was right), all combining. Autumn’s giant tits bounced, unfamiliarly, while her familiar face grinned, scowled, and laughed above. Her every expression like a roadmap to memories of her on Bad Mom, the line between acting and being so hard to draw that John began to wonder if either could ever be separate within someone whose world was all performance. Even still, he knew the joy there was genuine, even as he knew the performance was absolute. That was who Autumn was. She was star.
Her three holes stuffed, she looked at the camera, her mouth filled with cock. She gave it her trademark wink, and John, without even expecting it, felt himself gushing in thick wads onto his bedroom carpet.
Amy sat in her room, her veins all alive with the electricity of rare experience. She sat on the edge of her bed. She looked down at her body, blushing at her exposed cleavage. She had never noticed it before. And if she hadn’t been blindsided by that facetime call, she would have covered it up. Instead, she was sitting there, the parts of her which had gotten her in trouble, lain open for the eyes of not just anyone, but of a celebrity.
She looked up, seeing herself in her dresser mirror.
That’s when she heard Autumn Jones’ voice: “Confront… don’t avoid…” Then she heard that sweet, starlit laugh jingling, all cave-like and echoey, within herself.
She stared into her own face. Still beautiful, despite the minimal makeup. She then looked down, seeing her heavy cleavage, still eye-catching, without anything fancy to adorn it. She then looked lower, and there it sat, her window to the in-looking world, the entry-point of the ravaging hoard, trying to pry themselves within her reality. It was her phone.
She reached for it. The dresser then sat bare.
She, with butterflies assaulting her insides, opened-up her phone, and she searched, feeling helpless to do so, driven by an order rather than advice, for the video which had tortured her so thoroughly.
It came up, and when it did, she saw herself, like viewing a foreign animal, some shadow imposter of who she was, using her own body, its own shape and likeness, to humiliate her – forever.
She saw her ass shake, its cheeks, big and soft, jiggling through the flashes and the streams of beer from thrown cups. Her eyes fell quickly shut.
“Confront,” she heard. “Don’t avoid.”
She felt her thumb scrolling downward, down toward where she knew, and dreaded, the comments would be. She opened up her eyes.
And there they were: “Look at that ass.”
“Big-tittied bitch. I’d love to lick sweet and sour sauce off those things.”
“No wonder these Asian broads go black. It’s just no fair being shaped like that and having no dick to match in the home country. No wonder they’re fleeing it on planks of wood.”
Amy scrolled down, her thumb moving mechanically. She couldn’t understand why, not getting how confronting this could be preferable to simply dropping her phone and crawling beneath her bed now, staying there forever.
“An insanely beautiful woman. Everyone’s talking about her body. But she’s so pretty in the face. I feel like she could be famous, almost.”
Amy stopped, her thumb on the edge of that comment. She stared at it. Stared at it until one below it caught her eye.
“I didn’t know women like her could be shaped like that. Nice Asian class, with a nice Hispanic ass. She can suck you and fry rice with equal precision.”
Somehow, the derogatory edges of that comment had melted away. That which was complimentary sat for her, almost golden.
“Beautiful body. Just my type in every way.”
“Oh my god. Zzaxx must have had fun with her! I know I would have.”
Amy fell back on her bed, and it puffed from the weight and shape of her. She didn’t even notice. She continued scrolling through the comment section, finding more: “Beautiful,” “Shapely,” “Exotic,” “Sexy,” “Charisma,” “Star-power.”
These words, like gold amongst pebbles, jutted out at her, even as they came within comments otherwise brutal and mean.
Her hands, phone with them, fell to her lap. And that’s when she felt it. It was moisture. She looked down, as if looking at the body of someone else. She touched her crotch again. She was wet.
She stared, mouth open.
Then she lifted her big ass off the bed, hiking up her dress, and in no time, her naked pussy, its edges thick, stared up at her, wet as if it were a crying face. But the tears, if they were tears, would have to be tears of joy. She reached down to it, and the touch of her finger alone sent a shock through her body.
She fell to her bed, making it puff once again, and with the phone next to her cheek, and her periodically turning to see it, she dipped her fingers within herself, massaging her most sensitive space to the thought – no, the reality – of those comments, and the image of all the faces, all the wide eyes and grinning mouths which had taken their time to write them. Then beyond them, all those who felt the same but who didn’t write, already being represented, one hundred times over, by those who wrote for them.
She saw the video above the comments, her ass shaking, not just for the stadium, but for the world. She felt the world rising about her. And soon, joyously, she felt heaven inside herself.
From outside, she looked ridiculous, her mouth open, her eye twitching, her tits, while big and beautiful, jiggling hilarious with the orgasmic strain of her body. Either way, as Autumn Jones could have told her if she was here to witness it, Amy, even in this, had the X-factor.
And as that heaven receded, and she fell back within the soft embrace of its afterglow, she stared up at the ceiling, the phone next to her head, with her ass twerking next to her, she could see the starlit sky where the ceiling now stood.
Amy, as if in a very different reality from our own, walked down the street of her small Ohio town. She was the local celebrity, made all the more impressive through the fact of her availability. An availability that the former town celebrity had lost. She was known for her moment, her fifteen minutes, but what a long fifteen minutes they were. She walked down the street, all eyes on her, her summer dress barely containing her, her giant pale tits jiggling within it, their cleavage delicious in a manner that was maddening to behold.
When she was spotted, she seemed to keep to herself, but her chin was always held up high, and her gaze, usually stoic and direct, seemed to be focused ahead, on what was to come next. And she seemed, despite any will to suppress it, to be eager for what that was.
One day, as she sat at the café on Beale Street, she heard rustling, perverse commentary made by young men, and she blushed, her ears perking up to catch it. They burned, and the butterflies within her fluttered as words like “beautiful,” “big,” “jiggly,” and “cake,” were bandied about. And then another word stopped her pride in its tracks. “Onlyfans.”
Amy’s blood went cold. First at remembering what Onlyfans was through pop-culture. Then, somehow more disturbingly, at realizing it wasn’t her these young men were all a-hush about.
“She’s Italian, I’m pretty sure.”
“She sure looks like it. Sicilian especially.”
“How’d you figure?”
“You ever see True Romance?”
“No.”
“Okay, then watch it. I’m not doing the whole bit. Anyway, it’s in her blood to be shaped like that.”
“She’s exactly my type to. Do you think I’m hers?”
“Everyone is her type. Just be nice to her and… or… even don’t be nice to her. I don’t think it matters. Rob her house even, she’ll probably suck you off if she catches you.”
“Oh, she is my type.”
Amy sat there, feeling cool and trembling, as if she were in the shadow of a figure much larger than herself.
She lifted her coffee to her lips to find that it had gone cold.
She left her money and tip on the table and left. She had thought about leaving her autograph on the bill when she had first sat down. The bill sat there now, weighted by change, with not a single pen stroke on its surface.
“They’re calling it the APAWGOLYPSE. Many young women, all of them famous, have had private images, videos, and messages leaked in what experts are calling the largest cyberattack of all time.”
John stood there, staring at the television. Amy was in her room. He had seen her go in, almost in a brooding fashion, her expression blank, but with all the familiar tells of something being on her mind. She was still wearing her nice, form-fitting dresses though, which John was happy to see, both for her sake and his.
“Among the names in this cataclysmic event,” the man on the TV roared, his glee barely contained. “Emma Roberts, Anya Taylor-Joy, Florence Pugh, Kat Dennings, Scarlett Johansson, Autumn Jones, and Sydney Sweeney.”
John’s mouth fell open.
He turned, heading to his room, his heart rising as he did. His mother’s door past him, and he paid it no mind. She was invisible in there as far as he was concerned.
He fell to his bed, and began looking.
The image came, like something mundane and rusted, with almost no pull. It was the first thing to come up when you searched “Autumn Jones” without a parental filter.
Her image came up, her giant tits bare, their nipples exposed, that trademark smile on her face, but now decorated with cum. The likely culprit stood, still half-erect, next to her face. She was holding it in her hand.
Cum, in its slow drip, clung to her features, her lip, hair follicles, and the nipples of her breasts all held a stalagmite-drip frozen in time. Now frozen in infamy.
John stared at the cock, wondering, with his mouth dry, sucking back oxygen, at who the lucky man was. And that’s when he noticed. The cock, it was familiar.
He couldn’t place it, going through his list of male pornstars, those being the only cock he had ever seen. At least of anyone famous. And then it occurred to him. The cock in question didn’t have to belong to anyone famous. And because it was familiar, it had to be… he almost gasped out loud… someone from this town.
He thought of the ones he had seen, Evelyn’s husband…. And… And that’s when they came to him, the cocks in Tom’s basement. The cocks he knew so well. He saw them as if they were before him now, all being jerked off. Then he saw it, the cock in this image, a one-to-one similarity. And his eyes crawled up the t-shirt of the imagined man who held it, up his neck, and then to his face.
The young man turned, looking at him. Smiled and nodded. It was Liam.
John didn’t even look down at the image. He only stared at the wall as if he could see Liam there before him.
As John sat there, trying to process the implications of all this as quickly as he could, he heard a ringing in the phone. Amy’s bedroom door opened up.
He heard her go to the phone and answer it in Mandarin. He could tell it was his uncle on the other line. His mom continued with her usual niceties and sisterly talk. Then after a moment of a silence, Amy apparently only listening. Her voice could be heard echoing throughout the house in her native language: “Are you out of your goddamn mind?”
John knew, especially given his mom’s outburst that previous day, that it was the sweet honey touch of fame, no matter how bitter in its rawness, on the tip of his mother’s tongue which had allowed her to soften to Uncle Tony’s ludicrous suggestion.
John stood there now, camera in his hands, his mother within its frame. And her body, held tight within her red cheongsam. Her hair was done-up, not necessarily in a strictly traditional way, but in a way that was traditional-plus, exotic to American eyes, needlessly sexual instead of elegant.
She stood there though, having to have known this all in the back of her mind, yet standing somehow confident.
John scanned over her body, loving the way it looked, loving that his uncle was relying on him to catch these images.
“Social media,” Tony had said. “It’s the future. It gets eyes. And what gets more eyes than a beautiful woman.”
As Amy had been getting dressed in the backroom, Tony would go back there, both on the real and convenient pretext of making sure his wife was doing her up, in makeup and costume, properly. He had gotten a full look at his sister, every part of her, at various points in the process, and had even found pretexts to put his hands on her. Tony’s wife stood aside, perturbed by her husband. Amy, feeling her brother’s finger brush against the top portion of her butt-crack as he pulled her half-on bottoms up over it, just ignored it all.
As John snapped photographs, Tony, like a director, guided her from one pose to the next, slowly pushing her deeper into sexy waters with all the craft and subtlety of one trying to boil a toad. But Amy was the opposite of a toad. She as a star waiting to happen. And as John snapped more and more pictures, his mother’s body twisted and gyrating, and swaying into beautiful configurations, he could only see this with all the clarity that a camera could provide; which is to say, more clarity than could be gleaned from the naked eye.
At one point, Amy bent over, her thonged-ass popping out of the impossibly-tight outfit, revealing itself to her son’s, brother’s, and sister-in-law’s eyes. John snapped the picture as quick as he could, needing to capture it. It turned out though he needn’t be so quick. She just giggled, and said the equivalent of “geeze” in Chinse,” and fixed herself, Tony being quick to step in and help her do so. John took pictures of that too, feeling a thrill at seeing his uncle’s fingers somehow always brushing themselves against his mother’s naked and soft flesh.
Later that day, as John looked through the pictures, he felt his mom’s body, soft and gorgeous, next to his own. He looked up. “You know how to make Instagram?” she said in English.
“Yeah,” he said, staring into her beautiful faces, its particulars deranged by a weird vulnerable eagerness he was unused to seeing in her.
She smiled.
John set up the page not long after that. He uploaded her images, pinning the most salacious of them, accentuating her giant breasts and wide hips. He published the page.
He couldn’t believe he had found himself here. Graduated from capturing old creepshots with his phone, almost a snake in the grass, looming beneath the heavy weight of his mom’s ass. Now here he was, standing tall, posting her image with her knowledge and consent, and doing so for her own perceived benefit.
After settling the page, and living through the thrill becoming more manageable, he began to look for profiles to subscribe to. It was a good place to start. He went through the list of names, the matriarchs of the town, avoiding Gianna. The first name he thought of, after Autumn Jones, was that of Evelyn Richardson. He found her in no time and followed her. Seeing a glimpse of her giant cleavage in her profile, and wanting to relive his old memories with it, he clicked on it. And that’s when he saw it, above a cascade of sexual “non-sexual” images. It was an image which stuck out like a sore thumb. It was Evelyn, her breasts still gigantic and heaving as always, as she held a pregnancy test next to them. It had gone blue.
“I can’t believe it,” the caption read. “We’ve been trying to for years, and now it’s come. By son and daughter are going to have to make way for a third miracle.”
John’s jaw dropped.
Avery Richardson was in the background, his mom’s violator, with a big stupid grin on his face. Little did he know it wasn’t his own seed which had been planted in the rich soil of his wife’s womb. John stood there, his face pale at the realization: He had barely just lost his virginity, and now he was about to become a father.