America Part VIII: Festivity

Part I

Gianna’s body moved, nearly trapped within the cage of her outfit (which wasn’t much of a cage in terms of restriction). It clung to her, hanging on for dear life as her tits rattled the structure of her black rave one-piece, her giant ass cheeks threatening to burst through their fishnets, her every inch highlighted with the presence or nearness of glitter. Even among the women there at that rave, who danced about similarly dressed, she was a star.

Even still, she danced with an expectation. One hour, she thought. That’s what she had been told when she traded her hard-earned work money for it. She had been waiting for so long for it to take effect, almost thinking it never would, that when she looked up on stage, and saw the lead guitarist’s forked tongue stick out and slither at the crowd, she assumed that was just the way he was.

It wasn’t until the sounds of the music reverberated in waves, bouncing off of the distant surrounding hills, and against the soft flesh of her gigantic ass (which seemed to be able to taste each note), that she realized she had got what she paid for.

Her friend - dressed in a similar outfit, her body not as vivacious as Gianna’s, but still looking great, fringed with dayglo green - looked to her, her pupils like black holes. “Great band, hey?” The gyrating mass of heads behind her, some with faces, some without, buzzed with an inconsolable energy. Her friend leaned in closer to her, closing immense distances to get there, her face becoming huge as she got near. “Especially the guitarist, don’t you think?”

Gianna looked up at the man, his chest shirtless, his gut poking out, vividly against the red of his guitar. Gianna only couldn’t see it for a second, then the thought of him behind her, mounting her, his gut resting on her huge fleshy ass, his pelvis thrusting with that hard rock energy, brought the absolute conviction that she needed him now. She was used to that sensation, drugs or not. It would come on quickly, blindside and guide her by her hand, her heartbeat palpitating within its ticklish palm, toward the bed and pelvis of the man in question, whoever he may be that night.

She imagined that man now, her lips locked with his, his tongue, apparently forked, probing within her vibrating mouth.

She stood in the crowd, motionless. Her other friend grabbed her at her hips. Gianna looked over.

“Dance,” her friend said, her shapely body luminous through her own sweat, her butt-cheeks free, uncaged by fishnet.

Gianna looked down, realizing, only then, that she hadn’t been dancing. At least not for a while. The walls were dancing for her.

Two men stood behind her, looking down at her near-nude ass, watching it as it got back into gear, moving from side to side, jiggling, rippling, shaking. They salivated internally over her, both drunk, and neither knowing how easy it would be to have the body they were there staring at all night. Most would never believe it. The men on stage drew the green ire of every man in their audience, each imagining what it would be like to have such unbridled access to women so quickly. Few knew they could all have that experience, if only they ran into Gianna.

Her ass jiggled now, a one-piece thong running through it, and her tits jiggled more, their size so eye-catching, that even the men on stage could easily identity them among the already-impressive fray. Their conspicuousness only became more so as she began to ride the incline of her high to new heights. Her tits shook about, looking as if they would shatter her at a molecular scale, her ass, sandwiched by the twerking asses of her two friends, bounced up and down, each cheek independently, only occasionally coming together as one when they slapped into each other with a smack that could almost be heard over the loud tear of the music.

Gianna whipped herself up further, shaking them more, feeling the world shake around her. She drew eyes, dozens at a time, but it felt like millions, and she felt a sudden warmth run through her at it, the thought of her, multiplied a million times, a freak music box ballerina, within the thoughts, awareness, fantasies, plans of a million men. She couldn’t believe how she felt, not believing anybody could feel this way, the pleasure of it being too intense, almost making her believe she could shake it out through the moving phat of her body.

She spun around in place, startling even the men behind her who, up until then, had been staring at her nearly uninterrupted, startling even her friends. And then, suddenly, looking back at her amongst the throng of bodies, was a face that caused her to stop in place (her tits and ass took a moment longer to find stillness).

Those big eyes in that fresh young face, as she had seen them before, scared, longing and confused, stared back at her, the messy bangs of his dark hair waist-high within the crowd.

She thrust out her hand.

The two men standing there stepped aside, terrified.

“Dylan,” she said. “Dylan, what are you- wait!”

He turned and ran, further out, passed the crowd, and onto the grass.

“Wait! Dyl!” She pushed fellow-partiers aside. Many faces turned to get a look at her, seeing her jiggly ass as she went. Even the band watched, playing their instruments all the while, as their potential groupie of choice abandoned them to her own psychosis.

Her two friends watched, first feeling guilty about the drugs they told her were safe, until they both turned around, looking up at the band, and seeing, for the first time, that the attention of those grizzled faces had found them now instead. The guitarist, his eyes like burning flame, curled his mouth beneath it into a smile. The girls smiled up at him in turn. He flicked out his tongue.

Gianna pushed through the crowd, seeing the back of Dylan’s head. He was so small, so fragile. He had only started acting out recently, something which she chalked up to being just a phase, but him being here, of all places, told her otherwise. A sudden pang of guilt, one which coupled itself with the blissful reverberations of a million husky male voices, the wind of a million gin-rich volleys of breath against her ears and shoulders, hit her harder, pushing her on.

As she went, a million eyes followed in judgment.

In reality, they watched the beautiful woman, her hair and intentions dark, as she ran by half-nude through the gathering dark, her copious flesh jiggling through her clothes.

She neared up on Dylan, grabbing him by his shoulder, doing so violently. “Dyl! What are you doing here. You’re-“

Dylan turned around “Aggh!” he said, looking up at her, eyes full of rage, his mouth grimacing within the shade of his beard. “Let the fuck go of me, bitch!”

She looked down at her son, astonished to see him slowly transform into an adult dwarf before her eyes.

He looked up at her, disgusted by the strange woman’s giant pupils, not knowing that if he had only been nicer, he would have a chance (a guarantee) with this beautiful figure of a woman, no matter his size. In fact, he still did have a chance. But before he could even conceive of the idea, she looked around, frantic, not realizing that she had found who she had been chasing and that it wasn’t who she thought he was.

She ran past, calling for her son.

More faces rushed past, occasionally her body met someone else’s, and they cried out in shock or annoyance. Occasionally an ambitious palm would fall along her flesh, grabbing at it. Occasionally it would hit its mark.

Her bra came undone, and with it, her titty fell free, bouncing with her frantic, breathy jog.

She felt the ground give beneath her, and she tripped through the air, feeling it as if she had fallen a great height. She looked down at the grass, capable of noticing every single ant which crawled along its foliage, capable of noticing their every leg, and of predicting their every movement.

Then she felt masculine hands against her arm.

“You okay, lady?”

She looked up, seeing the young man who held her. “Dylan?” she asked, maybe half-expecting him to change into Dylan through whatever strange process caused Dylan to transform into a tiny man. “Dyl?”

“No,” the man said, his friends behind him. They looked on the beautiful lady, her near-nude body smelling like perfume, vodka, and sweat. Her voice and aspect motherly, but the way that she dressed, and her accent, spelling out to them what they chose to see in her: New Jersey Whore.

Even still, the concern they felt, and the fear of her emergency, was very real.

She looked at them all frantically. “Where is he?”

“Who?” one of them asked.

“Dylan!”

“Dylan?”

“Dylan, my son.”

They looked at each other.

“Dylan,” she repeated, looking past them at and into nothing. “Dylan! Mommy’s here, baby.”

That’s when one of them noticed her pupils. “Look at her eyes!” he said, his voice hushed but urgent, feeling as if he was sharing some great secret.

The other young men, hearing him, hearing his hushed tone, and hearing the fact that he was speaking to them with that tone, with the subject of his statement standing right there, connected the dots for them.

The three young men stared into her face, but she felt as if she were seeing a thousand faces, now turning monstrous, staring at her all at once.

She backed up slightly, and, at seeing the look on their faces as she did, looking as urgent as she must have been at seeing Dylan run from her into that crowd, she knew, but only instinctually, that she was in trouble.

“Grab her!”

She felt dozens of arms grab her along her body, and she worried she was being dragged into hell by some Eastern demon, the kind she had seen on the incense and weed stained walls in bedrooms she had woken up dazed to countless times before.

As they felt her in their palms and fingers, the sensation of her, her terrified eyes and her scowling mouth, excited them, driving them, in their drunkenness, towards the next logical step.

Gianna felt herself being carried through space, her own body weightless. A sea of hands beneath her, she felt as if she were crowd surfing. “Dylan!” she screamed over the crowd. “Mommy’s coming!”

She then felt a sudden, fabricky, tug against the flesh of her body, and when she hit the ground, it was a ground made of felt and sleeping bags. They looked at her from the mouth of the tent, their eyes glowing, the teeth in their mouths like fangs.

One of them looked behind, a sea of stars above him, as impermanent as if they were reflected on a lake. Gianna grabbed the felt and sleeping bag fabric, fearing she’d fall into the gigantic mass of water above. The one looking back, looked down into the tent at her. “Are we really going to do this?” he asked, both asking out of fear and out of excitement.

“We have to,” the other said. “Look at her. We can’t waste this.”

“Look at what she’s wearing,” said the third, his eyes glowing with a hungry angst. “She’s just asking for it…”

She sat there, on her fleshy backside, her tits hanging open, exposed. Her thighs and calves were long and bare, and her shapely ethnic sole of her foot faced them.

“She’s just looking for her son,” said the nervous one, halfway between being her savior and being her predator.

Gianna looked up at him, seeing a shy young man, one whose inexperience and awkwardness filled his mind with fantasies, and possibly hopes, of forcing the women who seemed so beyond his access beneath his humping body. Despite this insight, she was too out of her mind now to recognize the subject of these visible traits was her. She sat there, waiting for more.

“If she’s looking for her son,” said the more confident one, going for his belt. “He’s right here. All three of him.”

Gianna watched as the three faces, turning monstrous and huge, blocked out the stars.

They grabbed at her flesh, feeling her, real beneath them, her hip, ankle, tits, ass, thigh, wrist all warm within their grasps. She jerked, feeling their grips tighten against her.

When what was left of her bra was ripped from her chest, her other tit jiggled into view. They all stopped for a second, all at once, and stared at those tits as they settled into place.

She looked down at her own massive tits, watching the trails of themselves they left in the air, until they stopped moving, and sat there with an eternal stillness.

She looked up at the boys. They looked down at her body.

Then, all at once, they pounced.

Her underwear was tore up her thigh and calf, and then past her ankle and her toes. The confident one was the first to find his way inside her, and at feeling what she had to offer against his inebriated cock, he groaned in delight.

Gianna’s tits jiggled wildly under her open-mouthed face. She looked around, as if for an answer, as the young humping man leaned forward and began sucking at her tits.

She looked down, seeing the dark bangs of hair. Her eyes lit up. “Dylan?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, in between licking at her nipple. “Yes mommy, it’s me.”

“Dylan, what are you-“ Before she could finish that sentence, a cock thrust itself inside her mouth, probing to the back of her throat, testicles finding her chin.

She looked up, again to see her son, thrusting into her mouth. “Ryrran?” she said, tasting him as if he were a cloud in her mouth.

The young man looked up into the corner of the tent, pure joy in his face, as he thrust animalistically into the wasted lady’s mouth. Gianna couldn’t believe how articulated with beastly energy her son’s pelvis was. She watched it has his cock pushed in and out.

Most of all, as she looked down at the section of it which appeared whenever he pulled his hips back, she was shocked by how good his cock tasted, just like all the others, the long line of them she had swallowed within her lifetime.

She looked beyond the Dylan thrusting between her legs, seeing a third Dylan kneeling beside, jerking himself off. She felt warmth to see her son so close and near after such a frightening distance from her.

The Dylan between her legs, seeing her distant gaze before him, looked over his shoulder to see the other Dylan in the corner. He nodded him forward. “Over here,” he said. “Come get a piece of this bitch.”

He pushed the third Dylan by his pelvis so that his cock smacked out of her mouth, then he turned with her, ruffling the sleeping bags beneath, until she was on top of him. Then as the other Dylan thrust himself back in her mouth, he signalled to the inactive Dylan. “Come on,” he said, spreading her giant ass cheeks open. “Do the honors.”

She looked back, seeing her son, now a young man, nearing behind her nervously. Her butthole had been clenched from the stress of the recent chase, but seeing her target coming back safely to her, she unclenched herself.

He grabbed onto the fishnets, feeling them tight within his finger. He tore them away, exposing her fat shapely ass to him with an enticing jiggle.

She felt it, the head of his cock, press itself deep within her tightest hole.

She wanted to look back, but she felt another cock slap her against her cheek. She turned around, looking up into the expectant face of the other Dylan. “Suck it,” he said, slapping her again. “Come on.”

She took his cock in his mouth, just as she felt the other cock press into its deepest inch within her.

She felt that old familiar warmth, now warmer because it was her beloved Dylan sharing it with her, come back. She tasted the boys, felt them within her, their wiry flesh against the copious volumes of her own, as the night wore on.

At some point, her body had become the earth, its essence made holy through moonlight. Her body was being scraped at, its dirt, rich and fertile, being rubbed off palms after digging, as if her lifeforce was a nuisance, some source of disgust. The trees of her various forests were pushed flat like grass within the wailing wind by giant cylinders of throbbing flesh. She sat, a goddess in her throne room, daughter of the patriarch of all deities, suddenly feeling him gone, feeling all the gods and goddesses, dead, and the door to her chamber, once sacred, being hammered down by evil. Worse than evil, by that which was mortal, come against her as one big, shouting, ungrateful mob.

She existed now, as she always was, primordial ‘mother,’ as her primordial sons, mankind themselves, ravished her with real deliberation and force. She felt herself coming loose and dissipating within the acid of their masculine intent. She was surprised by how much she enjoyed it.

As usual with Gianna, she left all three of them with warm memories of this moment, memories which, to her, would fade into the miasma of countless others.

As the festivities surrounding this little tent continued, including Gianna’s friends backstage with the band, sucking off their twitching cocks in the alcove behind the smoothie stand, the real beauty of the night, beyond all the music, the dancing bodies, and the stars above, happened in that tent, which rocked back and forth within the darkness, the occasional shape, curvy and large, poking against its edges.

Gianna lay in the general spot where the previous night’s festivities had taken place. She opened her eyes to a blue sky in the distance. She shielded her throbbing face from the sunlight, tasting a bitter texture in her mouth, her body sticky and sore.

Then she heard a snap.

She looked up to see a small crowd of people, one of them pointing a camera at her, thumbing its action, readying it for another shot.

She looked down at her body, now sober. Her two tits, massive and nude, stared back up at her.

The camera man snapped another picture.

She got up, looking around to see eyes glaring at her. She placed her arm against her breasts, feeling the cum slippery against herself. It dripped off her copiously as she looked down for her clothes. She found nothing.

The crowd stared at her wordlessly. She looked around, frantic for help. And then she saw a face, one she was sure, in her sobriety, she had never seen before. But when she looked at him, seeing his dark bangs hanging haphazardly over his glaring eyes, she winced.

She rushed off, the crowd parting for her, thoughts of little Dylan in her head.

As most bodies parted, one refused. She felt his hand come down hard against her ass.

She turned around to see it was the hand of the familiar looking stranger. He winked at her.

She turned and ran off, heading toward her camp if she could find it, swearing off drugs as multitudes turned and glared at her.

She saw her two friends there, lying with men within their sleeping bags. She crawled into the tent, heading for her bag. One of the men opened his groggy eyes. Seeing her there, her gigantic tits hanging, he smiled.

She looked back at him for a second to see it was the guitarist, his face now seeming unremarkable under the sober light of day. Even his tongue, which hung out in his mirth, was of a normal length.

He pawed at her as she fought him off, trying her best to get her clothes on.

She crawled quickly out of the tent, one of her breasts still swinging free. She stood up and fixed that too as men passing by watched.

She stood there, finally clothed, but not feeling like it. The occasional face that past looking at her. She had no idea how many were staring her way because of what they had seen from her seconds earlier, and how many just wanted to get their fill of her, but to her, for the first time she could remember, it felt all the same.

The festival continued, and, despite her overwhelming shame and the sudden conviction that her life, her every preference and habit, had to change, feeling it as strongly as she had felt anything, the hours past, and with them, the conviction past with it. As the sun fell and the night turned black, her body, possessed by her former spirit, began to move, and with it, all her anxieties and second-guessings were shook free. She was back to who she always was, always would be. Gianna. She felt a masculine pair of hands grab her hips. She grinned.

John held his camera in his trembling fist. He was nervous, as usual, something which he assumed would fade with his triumph over virginity, the likes of which he snatched from two of the most beautiful bodies in town, harvesting from each with absolute abandon.

Yet he walked down the street, the sun oppressive over his head, sweating and shaking, still existing within the afterglow of his recent experience, enjoying it, yet still failing to be truly transformed by it.

He saw that stoop, dead flowers in the flowerbed which lined it. He knocked on the door, knowing the ringer didn’t work (it was still busted, as if by fist or hammer).

He stood there, looking around, seeing a rough character on the opposing sidewalk move past, eyeing him from beneath his hoody.

Then he heard the door open. He turned around.

He was looking up into Gianna’s eyes.

She looked down at him, her eyes puffy as if she were crying about something.

John braced himself for whatever it was Dylan had done this time.

Instead, below the bothered bags and lids of her eyes, she smiled. There was a twinkle in her eye, which, at first, put John at ease. “How are you, John?” she said, the usual snappy elasticity in her voice gone, replaced by a dragging drawl.

“Good Ms. Pizzolato.“ He cringed, knowing that Dylan always laughed at him whenever he said their family name.

“Mmm, John,” she said, pulling her head back. “You look good.” Her tits moved freely through her shirt as she moved. John could see her nipples running past their fabric.

He suddenly, after being hypnotized by them, felt a shame overcome him. He pulled his gaze away, looking down, past her waist, past her crotch, past her thighs, all the way down her shins, and then to her bare feet standing on the pavement.

Suddenly, John’s eyes shot wide.

He looked up from her feet, her toes painting black, up her knees, and up her thighs, and then he settled his sight there.

Staring back at him, free and open in the afternoon sun, was Gianna’s pussy lips, big and meaty, and staring right back up at him.

“Oh,” she said, and as she did, John didn’t even look up, his eyes glued to her. “I guess you’re here to see Dyl.” She stepped back, deeper into the house. John stared at the blank place where her pussy was only a second ago. She waved her arm with exaggeration. “Come in, come in.”

John looked up, seeing her turn around, and seeing the bottom half of her butt-cheeks, again seeming to be absolutely free and visible. His mouth hung open as he watched her move through the shabby décor of the house.

“Come, come,” she said, waving him in as if she knew he was stationary.

Stepping over a few stray bottles, she leaned forward, trying to regain her balance, having a severe time of it, but showing John a perfect shot of her ass bent over.

She stabilized and continued to her couch.

John followed her in, and then he stood in the center of the room as she sat down, pulling one leg up and beneath herself. John could now see a clearer, more full, angle at her pussy. He stared, saying nothing, not sure what to say, his body electric. She didn’t even seem to notice what she looked like right now, and he almost feared that doing the wrong thing would draw her attention to it.

She stared at him through red eyes, a big dumb smile on her face. Then, as if in a moment of realization, one which sent a sudden jolt of fear through John’s heart, she narrowed her eyes. “Oh,” she said, leaning up. “Dylan. You want Dylan. Yeah, yeah, he’s not home, John. At least not yet. He will be. He should be.” She turned around on the couch, grabbing a single slat of her blinds with two fingers, lifting it to look outside.

John watched the side of her face as she looked. She ran her pink tongue against her top lip. John looked down, seeing her giant tits in the shirt, and he looked down further to see her naked lower half. Her skin was darker than Amy’s or Evelyn’s, much less pure but much more viscerally erotic.

John had heard the stories about her, the whole town haunted by the ghosts of the things she’s done, and as he stood there, alone with her, her body half-nude, he seriously wondered if he was going to be adding a third from the short list of the town’s most beautiful bodies to his recently, and rapidly expanding repertoire.

Then she turned around, her udder Mediterranean beauty, no matter how corrupted by experience, shattering that illusion within him by its very perfection. “Maybe it’ll be a while,” she said.

John nodded.

She looked down at the carpet for a bit. Then she readjusted her lower-body beneath her and sat back down. She looked up at John. “Mind if I smoke?”

John stared at her.

“Good,” she said. She reached down, and John’s jaw dropped, as for a moment he assumed that, sans pockets, she would be reaching within another spot to grab her cigarettes. Instead she pushed her hand between the two couch cushions which sat beneath her. She held her pink tongue between her lips as she searched. John was continually shocked by the little islands of order which existed within the chaos of Dylan’s life. It appeared that Gianna lived the same way.

She seemed to find what she was looking for, as she withdrew her tongue. Then she tugged her arm out, bringing with it a baggie.

John stared at it, at first not understanding.

Then he saw the green flakes, plant-like and herbal within, along with a twist of paper. It wasn’t until she pulled it out of the bag with her thumb and index finger that he realized what he was looking at.

His mouth fell open.

Gianna sniffed it once, then she shrugged, putting the joint to her lips. Again, she reached, down, this time behind herself, between the cushion and backrest. She fished for a short bit and then pulled out a metallic lighter. She flicked it open, about to light it, but she then seemed to notice the glare from the incoming sun, its rays dirtied by the windows and darkened by the shades, and she kept it before her face, staring at it as if it were a priceless jewel. Then, probably noticing that it would look better if she were more high, she snapped herself out of it and thumbed the action of the lighter.

The flame appeared, lighting the joint’s end. She pulled, and John watched, still not believing, as the naked beauty before him filled her lungs, sucking them full, with the infamous substance he had spent his whole life hearing nothing but horrible things about.

She then exhaled. John watched the smoke, its very nature nefarious to him, exit from beyond her beautiful lips. He was so astonished, he had forgotten about her nudity. And then, at remembering it again, he realized that she likely forgot about the same thing. Hence why she was like this now.

She looked up at John, still holding the joint, looking satisfied. “What’s the matter?” she asked. “More of a fan of harder stuff?” She giggled, falling onto her back, kicking up her legs in the air. John looked at the view, her ass and pussy from beneath, staring back at him for a flash, before she came back down, her laugh disappearing as quickly as it came. She took another pull. She exhaled and said, more calmly, “I’m kidding of course.” She ashed some out in the ashtray next to her. Then she looked up. She smiled. “You look really nervous there, John. I’m afraid you’re going to narc.” Her smile was warm, extremely inviting, almost dangerously so. Then she nodded her head back, beckoning him. “Come on,” she said. She began tapping the empty space next to her. “Come here. Sit down. You’re not just going to stand all day. That’s crazy.”

John stared down at the empty cushion, patted by her lightly bronzed hand. He looked over, seeing her naked pussy next to it.

“Come on,” she repeated.

He took his first step, and, before he knew it, he was sitting down next to her, his heart beating out of his chest.

She glared at him for a second. Then she began laughing, her giant tits shaking in her shirt. “It’s like you have wires running through you. Or a stick. Like a scarecrow. Calm down,” she said. “I don’t bite. Well…” she looked up in the smoke-congested air, considering it. “I guess I bite. But when I do, I don’t swal-“ she stopped again, a smile in the corner of her mouth. “I don’t eat people is what I mean.”

She looked over at John, staring at him as she pulled again from the joint.

She exhaled. John could smell it, rich and natural, but still toxic in its strength, its very presence seeming wrong, salacious.

“Though I’m kind of made to look like I’m Frankenstein or something.” She lifted her shirt. “Look at this.” She flicked at a shiny bit of metal that stuck out from her belly button. “Nice, isn’t it? It’s like I’m the Terminator.”

John stared down at it, seeing not only it but the pussy which sat below it.

“Here,” she said, waving him over with her head, as animated high – in some ways more, in others less, than she usually was sober. A smile, one both enticing to John while also being frightening, formed on her face. “I have piercings in other places too,” she said. “You should see them.”

Just as she finished that thought, the front door opened up, leaving John no room to process it, only another source of panic to layer on top of the first.

Dylan walked in, his eyes up and into the air, seeing the smoke which billowed through it. He took a sniff. Then he looked over.

Gianna looked at him with wide eyes.

“What happened to your weed?” he said.

“This is my weed,” she protested after some silence, her voice strained, lacking conviction.

Anger filled Dylan’s features. He looked at her as if he were the patriarch of the house. “Your weed is garbage, mom. It smells like ditch weed. You’re smoking my stuff.”

She only stared back.

Dylan stared back at her. John looked at both of them, seeing Dylan’s anger, and Gianna’s lack of it, until he began to notice a twitch in Gianna’s face. That little moment seemed to gather steam, and Dylan, rather than push back against it pre-emptively, only stood there, waiting for it, as if he knew he had no way to fight against it once it came.

“Dylan,” she said, her voice now authoritative, fearless. “Whose roof do you live under?” Her accent (though John had yet to realize that that was what it was which gave her her flavor) came back in full force. “It’s mine, isn’t it? I pay so that you can live here with me. Do you pay me?”

He stood there, staring at her. Not happy, but without protest anyways.

“Last time I checked, it’s me, and my job, which keep the bills paid. Keep the electricity going. Keep you- pay for your dentist bills.”

“When’s the last time I’ve been to the dentist?” Dylan shot back.

John watched, wide-eyed.

Gianna looked at him, a humor rising in her face, but not one without authority. “Oh,” she said. “It’s going to be soon.” She nodded slowly, continuously. “It’s going to be real soon if you keep talking to me like that.”

Dylan stared at her. John could see, despite his stoicism, there was a real fear in his eyes. Not a fear of physical violence, but a fear of womanhood, and all the casualties it could create when scorned.

He looked over his mom, then his eyes dropped along her stiffened body. The look of fear and anger on his face gave way to a rising smile.

“Wait a second,” he said. “You’re really going to lecture me like you’re some good role model when you’re too high to even remember to wear pants when we have guests over?”

Suddenly, Gianna’s face went flushed. She looked down, seeing her pussy lips looking back up at her. Her neck craned forward, and she brought her hand to her face, as if she were about to cry or scream. John braced himself. Instead, she snorted. And then that gave way to more, followed by extreme laughter.

Dylan stood there, still by the front door, laughing as well.

Her laughter only rose, and John watched it, not believing anybody could laugh this much. Her tits shook as she stomped her bare foot against the floor. She then fell over comically, stiffly like a tree felled by lumberjacks, landing against John’s shoulder. John sat there, stiff as a board, in more ways than one, as his friend’s mom, half-nude, pushed her pleasing weight into his arm. She slapped him a few times on his hand, then she looked up at him from below, her laughter suspended, before another snort and then more laughter, falling to the opposite side, leaning against the arm of her couch, laughing at John, not because he had done anything wrong, but because he had happened to walk himself into this freakshow, and she, in her chemically induced state of mind, was aware enough to know, and reflect on the fact that, it was true.

“And John,” Dylan said. “Were you just going to let her walk around like that and not tell her that something’s wrong?”

John stared at his friend.

“Fuckin’ pervert.” He shook his head as he approached. “Let me have some of that.” He extended out his hand. “Don’t worry. Charlie isn’t here,” he said, referencing his goody two-shoes brother, the one Gianna always treated delicately.

Gianna, to John’s shock, handed Dylan the joint.

She watched, still laughing against her wrist as he pulled from it.

Gianna’s laughing began to slow down. Even still, she was giggling through her next question: “How did band practice go.”

Dylan exhaled, passing back the blunt. He shook his head. “As good as usual.”

Gianna, without even seeming to think about it, took the joint in her fingers, and in one continuous motion from that, placed it in front of John’s surprised face. “Want some?” she asked.

John stared at the smouldering joint, its lit end looking like hellfire. Back home, weed was no laughing matter. He looked at it now as if he was being handed an automatic weapon.

“No,” Dylan said, dismissively, breaking the intensity of John’s shock. “John would never do it. The guy hasn’t even got his dick wet yet?”

“Got his dick wet?” Gianna repeated, not knowing the euphemism.

John’s face was red, he looked at his friend, irritated, somehow embarrassed, feeling exposed despite the fact that what Dylan said was no longer true (and triumphantly so). That embarrassment, at realizing that Dylan was wrong, and that he had ground to defend himself on this point, quickly gave way to anger. He reached out, grabbing the joint from Gianna’s hand so quickly, she looked at him, startled.

He took it to his lips, sucking from it, not sure he knew how, but not caring. He tasted it, his whole mouth filling with it, his scent becoming it. But it wasn’t until he exhaled that he knew the full extent of what he had done.

“Oh shit,” Dylan said.

John felt the world explode as he devolved into a giant fit of coughing, the edges of which, at first, were discernible to his mind, but as the coughing continued, seeming like it would never end, John struggling for breath, categories began to go fuzzy around him, including the category of his own suffering.

He slowly began to find breath, feeling Gianna’s hand rub his back. “There now, there. You proved Dylan wrong. You’re a tough, little guy. I always knew you had it in you.”

John gave one last cough, and then he wiped the tears from his eyes. He looked at the two, they both looking back at him, both of them smiling.

“So,” Dylan said. “How’s it feel to be a degenerate?”

Gianna looked over at him.

The three of them had found their way, submerging through a cloud of smoke, to the floor, sitting facing one another triangularly.

Dylan took the joint which came from his mom’s lips, pressing it to his own, and sucking from it. It cherry went bright like an electric light. And then he passed it to John. John grabbed it, putting it to his own lips, feeling as if he could taste Gianna’s, not being sure.

He passed it to Gianna’s expectant hand, feeling her fingers, smooth, against his. As she sucked on it, Dylan leaned forward, grabbing at both her kneecaps. “Aren’t you cold like this?” He was looking down at her body, pussy and all.

She shook her head, passing him the joint, and then exhaling. “No,” she said, waving away smoke. “I’m always hot down there.”

John looked at her, then, suddenly, he snorted. Dylan’s head snapped toward him. John’s snort turned into a laugh, and then a full belly laugh. Dylan’s brows furrowed. He took a pull of the joint, and then extended his hand toward John, making sure to hit him in the chest. Sparks from the joint shot about. John grabbed the joint, and then he sat there, laughing to himself.

“I mean,” Gianna continued. “I’m very thick. It stores a lot of…”

“Oh, mom,” Dylan said, his eyes shut.

“What?”

“Stop.”

“What? It’s just, my thighs, and my-“ she leaned forward to look underneath herself.

“Shut the fuck up,” he said, pushing her back down by her shoulder.

Gianna snorted, and then fell backward, her arms clutched to her stomach as she laughed.

Even in their moments, John noticed they occurred in a way much more mellow than their usual selves. He was shocked, realizing, through them rather than through himself, how powerful this substance was.

Dylan ashed out what was left of the blunt in the ashtray that sat between them, then he seemed to reflect for a moment. He looked down at the pillar of smoke. Then he looked at his mom’s foot not too far from it.

“You a satan worshipper now,” he asked, grabbing it.

“What?” she said.

“Why are your nails black? Are you fourteen?”

“You wish?”

Dylan furrowed his brows, not understanding the insult, before his mom’s other foot pushed him off by his face.

John watched, enthralled, incapable of imagining his mom doing the same to him. Incapable of grabbing his mom’s body the way Dylan did his. He knew Dylan was a special case, but he could never tell to what extent. He tried to imagine Tom and Evelyn, Leo and Sofia, and Liam and Autumn, all of them, sitting on the floor near their indecent mother, reaching over and grabbing her by the nude flesh of her body. He could imagine each scenario vividly now, not knowing that it was the weed which allowed it so.

He opened his eyes, their gaze being filled with Gianna’s lower half. He stared at it, not just because he was aroused by it, the sight of it being pleasing even with sexuality brushed aside.

“Look mom,” Dylan said, grinning. “You’re giving this guy a free show.” He pointed down at John’s crotch.

John stared at the two of them for a bit, both of them looking at his crotch. It took him a while, but he eventually realized he should look down to see what they saw. He did, and he saw his cock throbbing in his pants.

Gianna leaned over, looking down at it as if she were looking down a well. John looked at her, his mouth dry. She then went back to resting position. “I’m really doing a number on him.”

Dylan leaned forward, grabbing on to his mom’s feet. “Show him,” he said softly.

She looked at him, then down at herself. “Show him what? Do you want me to shrink him and send him inside?”

“Dancing,” he said. “Show him your moves.”

“Dancing…” she said, reflecting on something. “While high on drugs.” She began to get up. John watched her, her femininity and nude ass and pussy towering over him. “I’ve never danced while high. Why should I start now?”

Dylan shook his head, his unimpressed state visible in his eyes. He reached up and smacked her on her ass. “Shut up,” he said.

John watched as Gianna moved over to her phone on the counter. She thumbed through it. He looked at her ass, marvelling at it.

The music turned on.

Gianna spun around.

She smiled at the boys.

“Here we go,” Dylan said. He looked over at John and shot him a wink. Then he turned to look back at his mom.

John stared at the back of his head. Then when he saw Gianna step forward in his peripheral, he looked at her.

Her hips began to slowly gyrate to the sultry, enticing music. Her bare feet moved adeptly across the floor, picking up to the rhythm suddenly and slowing down just as fast.

A song played, one classy and slow, something about a fever, some love, or lust, or other.

Gianna’s hips swayed, her face, even while high, taken over by a strange professionalism, one as serious as John had ever seen, shocking him. Even still, her huge tits bounced about bralessly beneath her cotton shirt. She laughed, looking at the entranced faces of the two boys who watched her.

She then stopped, just as the music did, its duration seeming to be lifetimes to John. A new song began, and Gianna lowered her body, dropping slowly with the swinging sound, her ass bending as her thighs tightened to support her.

Dylan stared at her ass, unashamed, not able to stop himself.

She stopped lowering, and then she looked at the two boys, the devil in her grin. “You know,” she said, as if letting them in on some great secret. “I used to be a stripper.”

John’s mouth fell open.

“Yeah mom,” Dylan said. “Everyone in town knows that.”

Without answering her son, Gianna shot back up, and then her body, as if possessed by something outside of space and time, shot into motion, her hips gyrating, her feet kicking. She dropped to the floor, spreading out her thighs so she could do the splits.

John stared, his cock raging, his eyes wide. She pushed off the ground, stabilizing herself, a smile on her face, proud of herself.

“Whooh,” Dylan cheered. “Take it off!”

Gianna snorted to herself, perhaps in the first moment, however brief, of self-awareness. It faded with the sudden kick of her foot up into the air, grabbing her heel, pulling on it. John watched her pussy spreading open.

Her foot came back down.

“Show the guest of honor your big fat tits,” Dylan said.

Gianna then, without shame, grabbed the end of her shirt, and in one fell swoosh, threw it off of her, it barely disturbing her hair.

The world went black.

John brought his hands to his face, feeling fabric against it. He tugged it off of himself, and then looked down, seeing Gianna’s shirt, still smelling of weed and perfume, in his hands. He looked up, seeing her tits, massive and unimpeded, their nipples shining with the seemingly-new piercings which clung to them.

“You wanna see my signature move?” she asked, one eyebrow raised.

The boys didn’t say anything, only staring.

“This always makes it rain in the club.” She felt to the ground, not stopping but rolling backward, then grabbing both thighs, pulling them apart, exposing her pussy to the boys, doing so with the same gusto usually reserved for a full floor of strip-club patrons. She grabbed her pussy and spread it open for their sight, itself dripping and pink. She looked over it at them, trying to contain the smile on her face, proud of herself.

Her beautiful, sensual, rhythmic movements, once deliberate, began to slowly give way to an idiot ecstasy. Her limbs flailed about, as impossible to control as the phat of her flesh. Yet, despite the chaotic eroticism, the animalistic sexuality, occurring in the forms of kicking, twirling, descending, and twerking (even happening inches within both John and Dylan’s faces), there was still an order to it all, one dictated by the rhythm of the music. John could see that rhythm rippling through Gianna’s flesh as if it were something primordial.

Just as he felt himself being lost in these thoughts, the thoughts and visuals one, Dylan shot up, reaching for his mom.

He first attempted, awkwardly, to grab at her arms, as if trying to dance with her, saying something that was inaudible to John over the music. Gianna seemed to laugh at it, backing up enough to give herself room to continue.

But then he grabbed at her harder, pulling her toward himself, his body making contact with hers, first, seemingly, by accident. But then it kept happening, and then he kept poking out his pelvis. “Let’s dance,” he was saying, now louder.

His hands glided over his mom’s body, dangerously close to her giant breasts, occasionally running over the cheeks and crack of her ass. She would push him away, laughing. But every time she did, he would come back, the smile on his face a little less prominent, similar to the smile on her own, his arms moving more aggressively, his hands quicker to squeeze, his biceps quicker to hold her in place.

Her expression went from humoring to neutral, then from neutral to annoyed, then from annoyed to angry. That happened at around the point where he began slapping her ass. But then, as he squeezed her tits, John could recognize the anger building in her face, one that was a few steps beyond her usual amount. It was when Dylan reached down, his finger pushing against the lips of her pussy that she leaned down, gaining leverage, to then push Dylan off her. He almost fell to the floor, stabilizing himself, and then shooting toward her again as if nothing had happened.

Her body was still shaking from the violence of her push by the time he made it back to her.

This time, his fingers found their way into her pussy, not even probing for it. He shoved them inside her and began fingering, even as she slapped against his shoulder. “Don’t” she said. “Dyl, stop!”

He throttled her with his arm around her waist every time she did, and continued fingering with his other set of fingers. “Yeah,” he said, his voice inhuman, animated by the spirit of pure arousal. “Yeah.” He leaned down, kissing her tit.

As John watched the two of them, horrified, the memory of the video Dylan showed him, where Gianna lay, eyes-shut, on the very couch behind him, being groped, kissed, and fingered by her son, played within John’s mind.

Seeing the look of shock, of horror, of anger, and of deep sadness as Gianna tried to push her son away in vain, his entire being dedicated to extract whatever pleasure it could from hers, made John feel strange.

For a second, with his imagination vivid now, he could somehow see Amy standing in her place, with him standing there, holding her, pushing into her, fingering her. John’s arousal was at a fever pitch, but so was his fear, both existential and immediate.

Gianna’s motherly body, holy and immaculate, was being ravaged, digitally raped and forced to indignity right in front of him.

For a moment, a horrifying thought occurred to him: he wanted this all to continue. He wanted it to get-

Suddenly, Gianna’s hand shot upward, slapping her son in his face.

Dylan backed up, his eyes shut, but, as if out of reflex, his hand came up, slapping her in her ass with such force that she fell forward, tripping over John knees, landing on the couch behind him, the sound of it loud in the house, and even louder in John’s intoxicated mind.

Dylan looked down at her jiggling ass. “You fucking slut.”

She twisted, turning around, her breasts jiggling into view. “You fucking pervert,” she screamed. “I raised a fucking pervert.”

Dylan held his face, groaning. “I’m glad to see you at least have some standards,” he said.

She scowled at him. Then she pushed herself up off the couch and walked past.

She stared her son in the eyes as she passed him, almost daring him to try it again.

He only stared back. She disappeared down the hallway, and into her room.

Before she could, Dylan already had his pants down, and he stood there, jerking off while looking at the place where she stood last.

He seemed to have forgotten John was ever there. Then he turned around, showing that that wasn’t true. “You’re welcome, John,” he said, still jerking off, not missing a beat. Seeing that John didn’t understand, only staring up with a look of udder shock in his features, Dylan continued. “This time, the show was live.”

John felt as if he were crawling up his stoop. He knocked on the door, and, realizing he had made a mistake, he shot for the handle. He opened the door, stepping into his own house.

He saw a familiar shape in the kitchen. It was round, big and wonderful.

His mom turned around, looking at him, her pale face grinning above her beach ball of an ass. “Supper’s almost ready,” she said, before turning around, continuing to stir.

John looked at the fat of her ass jiggling as she stirred, salivating over its every impermanent inch. The smell of food seeming to come from it, and he salivated further at the thought of food against his tongue.

Suddenly, his mom stopped stirring. He thought it was an illusion. But she stood there for a while, looking down. He stared at the back of her head. Suddenly, it was replaced by her face. This time, she wasn’t smiling.

She dropped her wooden spoon. It fell within the broth.

She began to move quickly toward John, a walk which felt like a run.

Before John knew it, she was standing in front of him. She looked at him with horror and shame.

“Oh John,” she said, “Don’t tell me, you’re…”

John stared into her disappointment, surprised it didn’t scuff her beauty, not even a little bit. He assumed now that she must have had powers beyond that of any mortal person. He was too high, and too olfactorily dulled, to know that she, and everyone walking past him down the street, could smell what he had done from a mile away.

Her disappointment found bottom and came out on the other side, in one sudden swing, as rage. “Do you want to grow up to be a complete loser, John? You know what kind of people do that stuff? Nobodies. People who will never amount to anything. I didn’t raise you to be that way. You come from a good family. A proud family. You weren’t born a lowlife. You…”

Her words continued on, phasing out and wobbling back in, before becoming inaudible. John’s gaze slowly dropped, as if he were falling asleep, only to land on his mom’s enormous breasts, his awareness being cradled by her cleavage, which shook with the every jot and tittle of her body, her arm slashing through air as she spoke shaking every inch of fat, putting tension on every curve.

As she went on, something about “role models,” and “the right crowd,” and “disobedience” leading to nothing, John recalled that though she was tough and willful in this moment, it wasn’t that long ago that he had her pinned beneath him, fucking her, cumming inside her while she lay there, eyes-shut, pitiful. He began to smirk, involuntarily, imagining the ridiculousness of it all, the dignity she sat perched upon, not realizing it no longer existed, her body, now-clothed, fucked into the dirt with his scrawny hips between her thick, smooth thighs. He imagined saying it: “shut up, slut,” and her face dropping, only to find courage, speak up again, and then have him pounce on her, pinning her to the ground, doing to her conscious what he had only done while she slept. That would shut her up.

“Hey!” she yelled, startling him with its suddenness. “Pay attention!”

He stared at her, scared in the immediacy of the moment, but no longer scared in that deepest place within his soul, the way she used to scare him. There was a grin at the corner of his mouth.

She felt off balanced by the strangeness of it, chalking it up to the weed, but she continued, only for a few syllables before feeling something against her hip.

She looked down. Fabric extended from John’s crotch pressed into her. It took a second to realize what held that fabric up. Once she realized it, she shot backward.

John watched her body jiggle, as her face above it showed pure terror.

“Go to your room,” she said, trying to put force behind it, but it falling flat.

Even still, he listened, wanting to, having seen enough today, feeling it more than ever in his inebriation, that he wanted alone-time anyways.

As she stood there, watching him go, she wondered, hoping, that it was the effect of the drug that caused him to get hard like that. Soon convincing herself of it, not based on anything other than that she needed that to be true.

And then, to fight off the thoughts further, her mind went back to strategy. First thing’s first: where did he get it from?  There were multiple ‘it’s in that question, all of them having the same answer.

Then she imagined that face, its rebellious grin beneath dark bangs.

She scowled, as if looking back into his eyes.

Part II

When Amy saw Dylan walking around downtown, a free man, her lips curled. John sat at home, secluded to his bedroom, grounded. She couldn’t understand how Gianna, after the phone call the two of them had, John half-conscious in his bedroom, as she asserted John’s shame and Dylan’s place in it, over the phone; how Gianna could just let her son, the true mastermind behind it all, back into the wild which corrupted him (and which he corrupted in turn).

Gianna responded affirmatively. Amy could hear her head brushing against the mouthpiece of her phone as she nodded against it, though she swore she could feel something approaching indifference. Something like placating, but worse, because it was backed up by an unserious personality, one that had acquired the art of placating through years of working face to face (usually through the mirror, Gianna’s breasts gigantic over thier buzzing heads) with her customers.

Now Gianna’s son, the corruptor of her own son, sat loitering against the brick of furniture store, looking out at a domestic situation that was happening loudly across the street, smiling as he watched the worlds of those involved fall apart.

Amy’s grimace only grew more rotten the longer she watched him smile.

A few blocks off, inside another building of brick and glass, Gianna stood within, with brushing comb and clipping scissors, finishing the hair of a wide-eyed teenage boy, one whose happiness to be there was being obscured by the sheet placed over his body.

Gianna’s massive tits jiggled over the boy’s shoulder, occasionally brushing his head. His mom had told him it was time for a haircut, and he whined that he was too busy (he had video games to play). As soon as he saw Gianna standing there, her tits still jiggling from tugging the sheet from the chair, smiling and motioning toward the blank seat, he forgot his troubles.

“Aaannnddd…” Gianna said, her breasts pressing into the back of his head as she leaned against him to get leverage on his bangs. snip “Like a new man, already! Look how handsome.” She brought her fingers to her lips and gave a chef’s kiss. She tugged the sheet from the boy, startling him, forcing him to lean forward as a way to hide his erection. She turned to the boy’s mother. “Hey you! Over here! Hello! I don’t mean to scare you none, but this guy right here, this handsome devil, that’s your little boy! Can you believe it?”

The mother stared back from her seat, unimpressed, her usual tolerance for banal humor waning for every second she saw this flamboyant woman’s breast’s swinging above (and against) her son’s head.

The woman paid at the counter, leaving no tip.

“Thank you so much, hon’!” Gianna said, an unironic smile across her face.

“Don’t mention it,” said the mother. She turned around, grabbed her son by his shoulder, and pushed against his resistance to get him to turn around, and then pushed more against that resistance to get him out the door. He tried to turn his head to get a peek back within the window, and all he caught was two giant balloons of fabric floating through the dark within, before he felt his mom’s forceful palm fixing his gaze forward and away from the establishment.

“Okay!” Gianna said, again tugging the black sheet into the air like a matador, her gigantic tits in sync with the sudden violence of the movement. She motioned toward the seat, her tits still settling into place. “Have a seat, babe.”

A young man looked at her, his eyes wide.

As he sat in the seat, feeling Gianna’s pretty fingers move through his hair with her comb, listening without hearing her constant monologuing, itself made to seem like a conversation with the occasional question of “right?” or “don’t you think?” before whipping herself back up again into her next point (there didn’t seem to be any central point, it all just spiralled out into nothing), always doing so without him answering.

The young man didn’t mind, her tits pressing into the base of his skull, rubbing up against his hair so much that she would occasionally stop to brush hairs from her cleavage, still talking, even as she picked stray hairs from between her tits, or dug deep to find an especially tricky one, pulling her fingers out and shrugging when she realized it was too far gone.

The young man shifted in his seat whenever her scissors or clippers left his head.

He wasn’t even aware of the radio, but when he saw her stop in place, doing so so suddenly and violently that her tits stutter-jiggled in the mirror, and then she spoke “oh, I love this song!”

He sat there, watching her body move in the mirror, her tits shaking, her lower half, its exciting curves, thick and delicious, swaying next to and behind himself, his ears perked up to the radio. When he heard the song playing, he smiled.

“I’m going to see him this weekend.”

“What!?” Gianna said, tugging the scissors and comb away from his head so quickly he was scared she had made a mistake (so scared he almost missed her body jiggling again). “I LOVE ZZaxx!” she said. She started dancing in place, and the man, late for his date, didn’t mind the interlude. “’Now all the girls know, they all know, that I got it well. All the girls in school that turned me down, they can go to hell.’ Oh, I memorized all these words. He’s the best. She put her utensils back to his head, continuing with her humming along, mumbling occasionally where she didn’t know the words: ‘Feeling on that ass –  mhhmm – right up in the club. Got your girl’s body in that hot tub, for that rubba dub.”

The song continued from the speaker, and the young man watched Gianna’s body move around to it:

“I love her butt, but with her tits out, Imma nut. 

I’m a nut for a white slut, mating call and rut

Call her up, get my dick sucked in my homie’s truck

Pass her ass around, ask around, they all know we fucked.”

His eyes narrowed. “Is this on the radio?”

“No,” she said. “This is my playlist.”

He heard the front door swinging shut. He turned to see the mother with her two kids had left.

He turned to look back at Gianna’s reflection, unawares above him, her tits nearly resting on his head.

“Man,” she said. “What I wouldn’t do for a ticket.”

“Well,” he said, smiling. “Good luck now. They’re sold out. You can find some on Craigslist for like quadruple their price.”

He could see a sudden sinking in Gianna’s expression, the nature of which caused her body to sink along with the corners of her mouth, and her tits now rested on his head more firmly than before.

She then looked up suddenly, her voice and expression lower, more subtle, as she gazed at him, through the mirror, directly into his eyes. “You have a date for the show?”

He stared back at her for second, almost forgetting that he did. Then he said: “yeah. My girlfriend.”

Gianna stared at him for a moment longer. Then she nodded, looking away. “Lucky girl,” she said, continuing to clip his hair.

He sat there, content with that, assuming the comment was regarding the show.

But then Gianna continued: “To have a boyfriend who looks like…” she trailed off.

He looked up at her, her gaze focused on his head, her job before her, dutifully. He stared at her, waiting for her to continue that thought.

Instead she was silent. The music continued in the background.

“Wop bitch with the titties, hope my cock fit

Between em. Now she’s sucking out the semen from this chocolate

Dish. Asian women be eating me with chopsticks

Jewish broads be helping me, the god, with some stock tips.”

“I like that line a lot,” she said, breaking the silence.

He stared at her, her gaze still on the crown of his head. “What li…”

“The one about the Italian girl.” She chuckled to herself. “Sometimes it makes me feel like I’m acknowledged. Like he’s pointing out at the crowd, at all his fans, and he’s seen me.” She stopped for a second, cutting a few more fingerfuls of hair. “And he’s pointing right at me, you know? And he’s saying: ‘I see you, beautiful. You matter.’”

He stared at her, her beauty suddenly solemn and impenetrable.

“Arab bitch sucks me off like I’m a terrorist

Bavarians give me top like I’m an Aryan

British chicks be devouring me like fish and chips

Colombians, yeah my dick’s fitting snuggly in

Between their cheeks. I get Turkish girls and even Greeks

Hindus and Sikhs. And rich and famous broads, I’m where their sex life peaks.”

Gianna stood there, her face showing the warmth that permeated within her from the thought. ZZaxx’s face, a smile at the corner of his mouth, his mocha features nearly white in the spotlight, as he pointed down, through every face in the crowd, directly toward her own. And then, his finger, outstretched and deliberate, slowly lowering itself further, until it sat level, pointing directly at her exposed cleavage, highlighting them, for herself, her town, and the world, as something special.

She felt those breasts, big and sensitive, always being aware of every inch, as they pressed against the young man’s head. She felt his body shudder in nervous pleasure and expectation, she knew those emotions better than she knew the undersides of her own breasts, and she pushed harder, expecting to spur them on further.

“I would just do anything to be at that show.” She wasn’t looking at him as she said this. Then after placing the scissors on the side, and grabbing her clippers, she looked him in the eye. “Anything…”

She turned on the clippers, and they began to buzz, and he felt that buzz as it pressed against his scalp, drowning out the music. All he heard was the echo of her voice. “Anything.”

Anything? He thought.

As he sat there, furious in thought, his head only untouched by those two massive boobs whenever she had to back up to deal with the back of his head, the contours of his mind began to fill with soft and expansive flesh, the likes of which expanded and compressed based on movement. He thought of his girlfriend’s generic prettiness, valuable but unremarkable (if he didn’t get along as well as he did with her, he never would have given her a second look or let her occupy any of his time), and he compared that prettiness with what stood behind him, working on his scalp, her mind ostensibly deep in thought, and, with that thought, desperation.

The clippers stopped, and her fingers ran up and down his scalp admiringly. “There,” she said. And then she stared at his reflection in the mirror. “Your girlfriend’s a lucky girl,” she repeated. “Not only is she going to the ZZaxx concert, but she has her own ZZaxx at home.”

He looked at her, surprised.

She brushed his head again with her fingers, and he looked at himself in the mirror, suddenly seeing the resemblance, especially with his hair short like it was.

Gianna laughed to herself. He looked up. She took her hand from her mouth and looked back down at him. “I hope she’s planning to do a little favor for you after the show, if you know what I mean.”

He sat there, unspeaking, blushing.

“Jesus knows if I had a chance to be at that show, I’d be pretty damn appreciative.” She then lifted her breasts from his shoulders and ran over them with a brush, and then in one sudden tug, she tore off his sheet. It fluttered in the air, and then fell by the side of her curvy waist. “There,” she said. “Beautiful! Just wait, don’t get up.”

She leaned forward, over him, her giant tits now pressed firmly against the back of his shoulder. She began brushing off his chest. “Such a beautiful head of hair,” she said. “Your girlfriend really is lucky. She brushed lower, at his stomach. “It’s like I cut a dog’s hair. Wow.” She brushed at his hips. He was frozen. “I should be a pet groomer. I knew I’d get there someday.”

He looked down, his mouth hanging open, as her soft hand brushed the hair on his crotch off and onto the floor, and then, even with the hair gone, she continued brushing it, the tent of his erection giving way only slightly every time she did, making its presence unmistakable, yet still she brushed.

“My god,” she said. She grabbed his inner thigh. “Move. Move. More.” She was spreading his thigh out. She began brushing between them. “Jesus,” she said, and she rounded the chair. She leaned before him, giving him the perfect view of her cleavage, then she began brushing firmly against his balls.

“Oh god,” she said. “You’re like a beast. No offense. I just want to grab a vacuum and-“ she leaned her head forward, as if her mouth were a vacuum nozzle, and she began making the noise as she moved her head from left to right dangerously close to his crotch. “eerrrhhhhh.” She laughed. “You know what I mean? Just suck up all that hair.” She stared at him from down there for a second. He stared down at her, blushing with sweat dripping from his hairline. She looked down. “Oh,” she said, and she leaned forward, brushing at his chest. As she did, her breasts lay directly on his crotch, rubbing against it as she moved from side to side exaggeratedly to clear imagined bits of hair.

His cock was throbbing hard, his mouth hanging open and his head leaned back. He thought something was going to happen, as long as he just sat there and let it. But then she spoke again.

“That’s right. Your girlfriend better know what’s good for her. If a gentleman gave me tickets to a ZZaxx show, I’d be- very, very, very, - very - grateful.” She began brushing at his clavicle. “I’d give him an experience he’d never forget.”

She looked up at him with a smile.

He looked down at her in desperate and longing horror.

Moments later, the giant tits which sat perilously within her over-strained shirt were now out and wrapped around his open and exposed cock, their nipples free and pointed outward comically, as she ran them up and down, panting with a big grin on her face.

As he looked down at the beauty of her face, and the raw sexuality of her moving tits, he imagined her as if she were his girlfriend. It was a terrible thought, in that it would be a bad idea in the real world, dating a woman like this, yet he couldn’t shake the sensation of it, it being too pleasurable right then and there. That was the thing with women like Gianna. It was their perfection, the product of their combined beauty and loose morals, which made them such a bad idea.

Even still, he sat there, groaning with his head falling back as she leaned her own head down, tongue out, receiving the tip of his cock with it. “Oh, it tastes so good,” she said after a bit. “Your girlfriend can’t leave it alone, I’m sure.”

He didn’t answer that, though he looked down at her, his lower lip slightly open, wishing she was right.

The door behind him sat locked, its sign turned around, informing the world that the shop was closed, giving them their privacy.

She leaned down, licking his inner thigh, giggling, and then working her tongue and mouth up, over his groin, up against his tickling hip, up his sternum, kissing him a few times in his less-than-stellar abs. “It’s like I’m on a date with a big rap star,” she said. She grabbed the sides of the chair, they squeaked in her arms, and she pressed the side of her head against his stomach, as if squeezing it in a hug.

He looked at himself in the mirror, seeing the beauty holding herself against him. On the counter a photograph sat, her on a boat with her two sons, both much younger than they were now. He looked at the image, shocked, the very tufts of their hair, wild in the bay wind, giving such normalcy to the seen, a normalcy which existed like a façade above sweating, panting moments like this one. Though the skimpy bikini she wore next to them could have possibly provided a clue to who she really was deep down.

He reflected on this vividly as he felt those giant walls of flesh going up and down his cock.

“Do these compare to your girl’s?”

He looked down.

She was looking down at his cock, working away at it. Then she looked up at him, spotted his confusion, looked back down and nodded. “My babies here, am I big enough?”

He looked at her breasts, expansive, fleshy, with a shape so defined they seemed as if they should naturally possess their own gravity, even disregarding size. But when size was factored in… oh god, their size.

It occurred to him, viscerally now on top of intellectually, that he had hit some sort of jackpot, and just that thought alone was too much for him.

Even he was shocked when his first volley of cum shot up and splashed her in her face. She shut one eye, but didn’t stop the rhythm of her tits even one iota. She kept rubbing her tits against him, even as his cock went unbearable with pleasure. She lowered her mouth, wrapping it around his tip, taking in the remaining load, its first shot dripping from her nose and landing, in a silky collapse, against his pubes.

After he was finished, spent, awash in a sweaty, breathy afterglow, one which was too dreamy for the intrusion of post-nut clarity, or at least a post-nut clarity which was painful, he looked down at her smiling face. She showed a row of beautiful white teeth in that smile, cum dripping past it. He knew that his remaining cum was gone, disappeared within herself. She tilted her head as she admired him. “Wow,” she said. “I did a bang-up job with that haircut, didn’t I?” She turned to look at the mirror in anticipation of him doing so.

He looked in the mirror, seeing her bent-over ass, his face above it, with his hair stylish and clean. Then her head turned. He looked back down to see her staring up at him, smiling mischievously.

Her head moved up his body, her eyes shut, and her lips puckered. Then their lips met, and he enjoyed the taste of his cock on her mouth. It was a sloppy, wet, open-mouthed kiss, a whore’s kiss, the kind that every man loved, though he knew not why.

After her lips left his, and he sat there, his eyes shut, floating in a void, he opened them, and he saw her looking up at him, her smile still there, still genuine, still beautiful, she opened her mouth to speak: “So, about those tickets then?”

While he lay at home in bed the following night, his girlfriend watching TV next to him, bored, he rolled over, thinking about the previous night’s beauty; Gianna stood up on her shapely legs, standing behind a chair, running her clippers through another head of hair, her mind occupied by nothing except the song from her playlist.

“Get them titties out, the whole fucking city shout

The goal’s sucking with your mouth. Your whole life’s a casting couch.”

The thirty-something man would have turned his head to look at the stereo in disbelief were it not to jeopardize his hair. Instead he looked up at the woman who bobbed her head, mouthing the lyrics as her titties shook in rough simulacrum to the beat. He could feel those giant tits tapping out the rhythm on the back of his head. It was a strange way to experience one of his favorite songs. Better than even going to see it performed live on the weekend.

He looked at his face, seeing that he was having trouble containing a smile. How could this get any better? he thought. 

Then he looked up, seeing her face looking at him through the reflection. “Hey?” she asked, with something appearing to be intent. “You happen to listen to any ZZaxx at all?”

“I’m the sickest with the flow – and all the bitch’s know

When I’m sold out, she’ll suck your dick for tickets to my show”

Amy lifted her phone to her ear with a grimace on her mouth. She had avoided this for the last few calls, entertaining avoiding it forever (such was the intensity of her anger), but, imagining falsely that her friend had finally found shame and was sorry, she answered the call.

“You like American music, doll?”

“What?” Amy asked.

“Do you only like Chinese music, or do you like some American songs too? I need to know before I call Sofia again.”

Amy’s mouth was open, caught on the spot. “American… I like some…” She didn’t quite understand the question. She didn’t understand why Gianna thought she wouldn’t, especially since they had danced so much to American music in the clubs together.

“Okay good, good,” Gianna said. “Because I got lucky this week. Four tickets for a concert fell into my lap recently and I was wondering, since we’re girls, if you wanted to come with me.”

Amy’s eyes lit up.

“And since I have four, I thought maybe Dyl and John could come along. I know they like rap music.”

Amy’s face dropped, both at the mention of John, and at the mention of that word: “Rap.” She held no bias against the genre, at least not musically, with it being no more or less strange to her than conventions she had heard in American pop, or even old jazz music she would hear in commercials in China. But when it came to lyrical content, even with trouble trying to keep up to the quickly-spoken lyrics and the layer upon layer of references and slang, she could still catch a passing gestalt of what it was all about. Her mouth formed into a scowl.

As Gianna droned on, talking in strange circles which always somehow, after forever, found their mark, Amy recalled a lyric, not knowing by whom. She didn’t remember much of it, only its general sentiment, its nature shocking her, and her racial biases, the fear of the feral black American, tinging it with visceral flavor. The lyric was:

“And yeah, you see that booty? Heavy duty

She may be a cutey, don’t mean she won’t treat a nigga rudely

If you see her, nose stuck up, don’t even let her pass

Grab her by her wrist and slap that bitch up on her ass”

She remembered only scraps of it, but its ideas sat burning like coal within her mind, shocked by the aggression of it, shocked by its ability to exist. The song left such an impression on her that she could only assume that black Americans functioned as some form of informal insurgency within the country, at war with peace and order itself. It wasn’t until she had met Sofia’s husband and son that she realized black people could be more than the cliches she had of them in her head.

Even still, when she passed them on the street, she had to admit, her butt-cheeks would clench themselves from fear of a large hand coming shamelessly, forcefully, against them. She wasn’t thrilled with the thought of that happening to her by any hand. But the thought of it being a black hand was just all the more degrading.

“So, would that be okay?” Gianna asked.

Amy stood there. She shut her eyes, shaking her head for focus. “Would what be okay?” she asked.

“John. You, John, me and Dyl? We’re all free Saturday?”

Amy held the phone to her ear, she grit her teeth. “John has to study Saturday. He…”

“Oh… well I guess Dyl will have to bring another friend. He wanted John, but I should have known hitting the books would be more his thing.”

“Yes. And be honest, me too.” She felt weird saying that, knowing the hostility it implied, but she was shocked when Gianna spoke again, the sentiment rolling off her like water past a duck.

“Yeah… Let’s see. You and John are out… Sofia and Evelyn are busy this weekend… huh. You wouldn’t think it would be this hard to give out two-thousand dollars worth of tickets…”

Amy narrowed her brow. “Four tickets are two-thousand?” she asked, interrupting Gianna mid-thought.

“Four?” Gianna repeated. “No, the two for you and John are two-thousand.”

Amy was silent.

“They’re right in front of the stage.”

Amy said nothing.

“What’s the matter, babe, you sound like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Get your money back,” Amy said, assertively.

“I can’t. I guess I could sell them. But everybody’s busy. And, besides, who has that kind of scratch, you know?”

Amy was staring at the wall.

“Nobody… right?”

“I’ll go,” she said.

“What?”

“I’ll go. John too,” She shut her eyes.

“Really?”

She didn’t say anything, just sitting there with her eyes shut. Then she nodded against the phone. “Yes, John can come.”

“He doesn’t have to study?”

“He can study Sunday. Is fine.”

“Yes! I wanted you to come. It means a lot to me to give my girl this experience. I would have told you before Ev’ and Sofia, but you must have been busy.”

“Yes,” Amy said, recalling her phone vibrating, Gianna’s face on its screen as she stared at it wordlessly with a scowl. “I was busy.”

“I know you, babe. You usually are. That’s why you need a little relaxation.”

Amy winced a little bit, that word, relaxation, feeling strange when it came from Gianna. Not only did it seem to be a reflection of her carefree attitude, one which Amy had been getting irritated with lately (now that its novelty had begun wearing off), but she had recalled moments, drunk in a cab as the cabbie looked through his rearview mirror at them, or in the bathrooms of various clubs, where Gianna’s hands, drunk and unstable, caressed Amy’s flesh, her shoulders, neck, thighs, and calves with a massage while saying “relax, you’re so tense”, and it was in these moments when the wild rumours about her new American friend, the ones which cast her as immoral, really began to bloom as more than rumours in Amy’s experiences.

“Okay, doll! Well, I’ll text you the info and we’ll decide what we want to do from there.”

“Yes,” Amy said.

“You’re the best, beautiful!” Gianna was about to hang up the phone, Amy was waiting for her to, when she suddenly felt a sudden tugging within her chest.

“Gianna,” she said.

“Yes babe?”

Amy held onto the phone, finding it hard to find the words, not just because they were in English. “Thank you,” she said.

“Oh, no sweat! Talk to you soon, gorgeous!”

The line went dead. Amy sat there, with it to her ear. Then she put it down on the table. She looked out the window from where she sat. Then, feeling the need to get up and cook dinner, she noticed her feet were sore from her shift. The thought occurred to her in Mandarin: I could use a massage.

Amy saw Gianna’s eyes light up as she approached her car.

“Fabulous, as usual. That’s my girl!”

John looked over at his mom, seeing the skintight body suit, its color an eye-catching red, which hugged at her voluptuous body. He looked over at the car to see Dylan looking at Amy with just as much eager joy as his mom did. He looked to John and shot him a wink.

“Is it too…” Amy started, feeling self-conscious about the ay her body suit hugged her form.

“Too gorgeous?” Gianna said proudly, having picked out the outfit with Amy, insisting all the while that it was fine. “Doesn’t she look pretty, boys? I knew it would look great on her figure.”

John got into the backseat, and he stared at Gianna’s chest, being absorbed with it, shocked even by how exposed she was, her cleavage visible through her sheer see-through top. He then looked up and was greeted with Gianna’s eyes in the rearview mirror looking straight into his. “John, don’t you look handsome.”

John blushed.

Dylan looked over at him, with one eyebrow raised, as if he couldn’t see it. He shrugged and looked ahead.

The two boys sat in the car, John the more jittery of the two, with his mom, in the front passenger seat, the more jittery of the two moms. Gianna was excited, her playlist coming from the car speakers, hyping her up. She sung along to the lyrics.

“Assault and battery. She gasps when she sees it?

That flatters me. Anatomy’s fat, that’s no secret

And she can match with me, her tits and her ass’ll be

As big as I’ve seen. And I’ve seen her whole family.”

Amy stared at the stereo, blank-faced.

John blushed in the back, knowing the song, knowing their lyrics, being a fan of it back home, and fearing now, that his mom could hear it, that she was beginning to realize she had made a mistake by saying yes to these tickets. John knew the endless well of things said by ZZaxx that his mom would disapprove of. He knew the discography back and forth, and had an encyclopedic knowledge of every offensive sentiment or phrase, feeling as if it were all so cool, possibly because of how he had to hide it from his mother. The irony of sitting here now, watching her on path to see ZZaxx perform was surreal.

Amy said nothing, only looking ahead.

“Spank that bottom. This is Gomorrah and Sodom

Her crush on the phone. He’s got that love Jones – Autumn”

Amy tilted her head, and John hoped, though it was a longshot, the above and beyond the reference made to a locally-sourced celebrity, that his mom would spot the cleverness in what was said, and, somehow, that would be enough to override her chauvinism against such music, especially since it was this cleverness which drew John to ZZaxx in the first place.

He could see the side of her face in the front seat, her pale complexion growing red, and he began to sweat.

“Can you believe this is who we’re seeing?” Gianna asked. She shook her head. “The man’s a genius, I swear.”

“He’s a regular Shakespeare,” Dylan said, but his joke was inaudible over the music.

“Speak horrors – to a smattering of applause

I don’t listen to the cops, I don’t listen to no laws

I break curfew to go out and break jaws

I pick up girls in college lectures and spas

I get ‘em home, without even knowing their name

It's easy to court, like E A Sports, it’s in the game”

John looked out the window, not saying a word.

Amy felt Gianna shifting in her seat next to her, excited for the show, her lips mouthing every lyric, and she thought of John, thought of just how dangerously close she had let him get to all of this.

After a while, Gianna noticed something was wrong.

She looked Amy in the face as soon as they found a red light. “What’s wrong, cutey?”

Amy said nothing.

“You look tense.” Gianna’s hand moved down toward Amy’s thigh. She got one massaging squeeze in, then another, before Amy pulled her leg away.

Gianna looked at her, surprised.

Then she heard a honk from behind.

“Green,” Amy said, flatly.

Gianna turned, looking ahead. She stepped on the gas.

She felt something for a moment, something like worry, or fear of judgment, but as she continued, another one of her favorites playing from her stereo, and she reflected on just how close they were to the stadium, that worry washed away in the details of life, just like it always had for her.

And before they found the next red light, Gianna was already singing the lyrics to the third verse.

John was ushered through the metal detector, which he moved through dutifully. Dylan came in behind him, his face showing his usual rebelliousness as he did. Amy and Gianna were off the side, being ushered through the full-body scanner. John watched his mom, just as he did in the airport coming to this country, as she stood within it, her arms lifted up over head, accentuating the every curve of her body, before being waved through.

John felt Dylan leaning against his shoulder. “It’s not as exciting as it looks,” he said. “On the screen it shows up like a stickman.”

Gianna was next through, following a blushing Amy. She stood proud with her hands above her, her legs spread out. The security stared at her, the operator taking a second too long to start the scan.

“They just like seeing them in that pose, is all,” Dylan said. “Fuckers.”

As they both continued on, their mothers catching up. “Your mom looked good though,” he said, with mock innocuousness. “Very…” he then motioned against his chest with upturned palms, imitating breasts. “You know what I mean.”

John was extra jittery now, with the atmosphere looming about and above him, bodies and faces everywhere, people yelling to their friends and dates over the loud music which played in advance. He looked up, seeing the high ceilings, and then, in a moment of being overwhelmed, he felt Dylan pushing at his elbow.

“Wait,” Gianna said, her voice barely audible. “We should get some drinks before we go up…” her voice faded on her way to the bar.

Amy moved sheepishly, her body drawing eyes, her ass a bull-enticing red. She felt self-conscious, exposed even, and a well of bubbling resentment began to form within her, remembering when Gianna assured her, doing so with an assuring hand on her forearm, that it would be more than modest enough.  

As Dylan and John stood there, watching their mothers go to the bar, Dylan seemed to stare, and, to John’s surprise, it wasn’t at Amy.

Dylan’s eyes followed his mom, scanning her up and down. And when he saw the bartender, a creepy smile on his face, hand the two voluptuous woman their drinks, Dylan’s eyes seemed to stare with a lustre, some sort of a focus which was so acute and usual for him, that it took on the look of an intense typicality.

When the moms came back to the two boys, Dylan reached out, his palm finding the small of his mom’s back, pushing her forward before him. It was this sight, this action as if his mom was his (in a way beyond what any mother should be to their son) that the sight, one John had seen before vividly, had flashed in his mind.

It was Gianna, her body naked, the piercings on her nipples jingling, as Dylan, her own son, rubbed his cock against her face in an animal ecstasy. John watched her tip the plastic cup to her mouth. He watched Dylan push her forward, her cup full of beer in tow, and it occurred to John what Dylan’s “afterparty” for the night would look like.

Amy’s body moved dangerously close to men on all sides, and every man she passed had his eyes glued to her perfectly accentuated, giant, red ass. As Amy tipped another sip to her mouth, John imagined himself, after the night was finished, the experience irreplaceable, then leaning against his couch, thrusting his cock in and out of his mom’s mouth, pulling it out only occasionally to rub her face with it.

It was his focus on these thoughts, their vividness, and their genuine possibility, which distracted John from noticing what Gianna had just done.

She, wanting to have a good time, clutched her delicate fist around a little pill. It was crushed within, and, with the opening of her palm, its powdery residue fell within her cup. She smiled to herself, longing for the coming sensations, which she knew would reverberate from the top of her head down to her toes, filling her with a thrilling vibration, the type she longed for in all things, but which came to her most acutely with this drug. She lifted the cup to her mouth, taking a deep swig, and she felt herself trembling from the anticipation alone. She knew the trembling would only be more intense later.

The opening act moved up on stage, and Amy watched them from below, her mouth almost falling open as she witnessed their young black bodies, their flesh ubiquitous with tattoos that could barely be made out against their skin tone, move across the stage in sudden jerks and twists. The lyrics coming from their mouths were barely audible, not through any lack of volume, but as if their tones were choked within the speakers.

As Gianna vibed to the song, not knowing the music, taking deeper and deeper swigs, eager to have the molly take effect, she saw a girl standing in front of her fall. She tapped Amy on the shoulder, handing her her drink. Amy held both, watching her friend pick up the young girl (a girl too young to be there by Amy’s estimation), and then she looked back up on stage, gobsmacked by what she was seeing. The worst of it was when one of the rappers pointed out at the crowd, his finger extended and jerking back, as if pulling a trigger.

She felt a hand pat her on the shoulder. She look to see Gianna, hand extended with a smile, waiting for her drink.

Amy handed it back to her. Or at least she thought she did. Gianna assumed she had as well. “Thanks, gorgeous,” she said. They both looked back up at the stage, both with very different expressions on their face. And, at roughly the same moment, they both lifted their drinks to their mouth.

As the two women watched, Dylan snuck behind their beautiful, shapely forms (making sure his wrist brushed Amy’s ass as he did) and grabbed his friend. “These guys suck. Come with me for a minute.”

They both emerged out of the thick wall of sound, and into the bright light of the bathroom. John stood there, amongst various other bodies, nervous as to what was happening. Dylan watched the stalls. As soon as one opened, he grabbed his friend and said “let’s go.”

“Couple of fags,” someone called behind them.

They went inside, and John watched, shocked as Dylan pulled out a joint. John’s mouth fell open. Dylan lit it, pulling from it, and then looked up at John. Seeing his face, through that billowing smoke, he coughed. “Oh fuck,” he said. “I thought we were over this…”

John stared at his friend.

“pussy…” was all Dylan said and went to take another puff.

He was shocked to feel the joint pulled from his hand. John held it against his lips, sucking in as much smoke as he could. Enough to clear his name in Dylan’s eyes.

“Yes,” Dylan said, watching, impressed. “Suck that thing.”

Men in the bathroom waiting for a urinal, sink, or stall, looked over at theirs.

When the two boys emerged, a billow of smoke with them, they did so with their eyes red. Especially John, who had had too much.

They emerged from out the bathroom, and John felt himself being consumed whole by the thick waves of sound, stepping into them as if they were more gelatin than music, the venue around him, all its various faces and personalities, simultaneously seeming more and less real than he had ever seen before.

The faces moved past like ghosts, and he followed Dylan without even realized he was, until both Gianna and Amy appeared next to him.

Amy looked at him, and he looked at her. The beautiful subtleties of her gorgeous pale face appeared to John vividly. He stared at her with his nerves on edge. Though he had yet to see her usual recognition, and soon judgement, something about her face set him off. Something different. It must have been the weed, that was all he could assume. He looked away and back up at the stage.

Amy watched her son with her pupils having expanded to gigantic size. His features came to her not just vividly, but with a sheen, a weird set of associations, many of which included a syrupy motherly warmth which rose within her. As she stared at him, he saw her staring in his peripheral, and as he did, he felt his body begin to tighten up. His paranoia began to rise, starting small, then becoming unbearable. Then, all at once, her head snapped up toward the stage.

She looked up, seeing the men dance, as they had been, hearing them mumble those lyrics of threatening violence and decadence, seeing them make them say horrible finger gesture, but something was different this time. Amy couldn’t place her finger on it. Then she realized. She looked down. Her leg was moving. Her hips were two. Soon, the rest of her body was.

As Gianna stood there, her cup empty, feeling her first braces of the effect (even if it were cut in half), she looked over at her friend, first shocked, then pleasantly shocked, then she began to dance along.

Their sons watched as their bodies moved. As the songs progressed their bodies moved more intensely, more carelessly, and due to this, with more sex appeal.

Then the music stopped. Gianna smiled, feeling a bit disappointed that she got ripped off on her Molly. Amy stood there, feeling as if her soul was ripped from her body, the rhythm she felt being sucked from her world and leaving her there in its shadow, falling a million depths within its darkness.

Then a voice called from an abyss above. “Now, for the main attraction this night. Perhaps…” The voice, itself dramatic paused for the applause. “Perhaps, the main attraction of your lives.” The crying female voices behind John exploded vividly within his ears. Their screams only rose, barely being outdone by the rising voice of the hype-man, his volume rising with every word. “I’m gonna ask you niggas to put your motherfucking hands together for the realest nigga there is. Toronto’s own, ZZaxx!”

John felt the sound behind him as if it were a physical brushing sensation against his back and neck.

Amy looked up, wide-eyed, feeling herself riding the cheers behind her, riding them upward, their fingers warm, toward the object on stage.

ZZaxx emerged from out the dark. “Ohio, I love you,” he said.

Gianna screamed with pleasure. Even with only half of her expected molly in her system, her voice had all the texture of orgasm.

ZZaxx immediately dove into his first song. The crowd, Gianna included, knew all the lyrics.

Amy stood there, at first motionless, hearing a million voices emerge from out the handsome black man’s mouth.

“Little China girl. Take her sweet ass for a whirl

My yellow pearl. She’s lunching on my nuts like she a fuckin’ squirrel”

Amy looked up at the young man, his energy rough and animalistic, and, feeling a warmth toward him, one unlike she had ever known for anyone, she suddenly felt it – again, but still with shock.

She looked down.

It was her hips. They were moving. The rest of her followed quickly.

John looked over, seeing his mom’s body, its every inch hugged tightly by that red bodysuit, her very feminine curvature swimming through the red fabric which hugged it so tightly. And he wasn’t the only one to notice. John turned around to see men standing behind his mother, all of them, their heads funnelled toward her, staring at the beauty. Some of them had their phones out, initially pointed at ZZaxx, only for those phones to slowly lower themselves, and fill their little canvas with Amy’s beautiful red form.

John, the world hazy and unreal, found himself taking a few subtle steps backward. He went for his phone, pulling it out with the pretext ready that he was going to film the show, and as soon as his camera came on, he filmed the show alright.

His mom’s body moved, her fat ass and huge tits jiggling about, within his screen. His mouth now literally watered.

Gianna saw her friend having a good time, had been admiring it, but only now had she begun to piece it all together. She looked down at Amy’s feet. An empty plastic cup sat neglected on the shadowy floor. She looked up and into her friend’s face, and seeing it, she couldn’t help but smile. Amy turned to look at her, her pupils gigantic.

“I see you’re finally learning to let loose, beautiful,” Gianna said. And her warm smile to her friend was accompanied by her hand against her opposite hip.

Amy felt it there. She tolerated it there. She enjoyed it there. She loved it there.

And, within a second, Gianna’s ass shot outward, meeting Amy’s, and soon they were twerking as one.

John stood there, aroused beyond belief, looking up past the screen of his phone and toward ZZaxx and his performance. He was trying to appear as innocuous as possible, feeling himself filled with ecstatic nerves as he did.

Gianna’s miniskirt rose with every violent twerk, exposing more and more of her ass cheeks, the naked flesh of which rubbed against Amy’s crotch. John stared, too high to express his shock on his face, instead his mind alive with the realization that Gianna wasn’t wearing any panties beneath that skirt. The crowd roared for ZZaxx behind him, and it reminded him just how many people were in here with a Gianna that was so close to being utterly bottomless.

Dylan looked at the two, his mouth hanging open. John didn’t notice then, maybe he should have, but Dylan’s sights were no longer on his mother. He looked at Amy, admiring her up and down. His face was blank. He looked at John, who didn’t notice him, he looked back up on stage, then he looked back at the beautiful oriental rose. He had always knew she was beautiful, but it was only now, the both of them inebriated, that he truly saw it. And at seeing it, his lust went from a desire to a need. And his neutral expression gave way to an intent and an intensity. His right brow up and his mouth firm.

Gianna’s hands moved all up and down Amy’s body, and Amy, feeling the want to do the same, begin to feel up Gianna. Their big tits bobbed and gave way to the pressure, their asses shaped and reshaped by the probing invasive fingers.

John only looked up and ahead. His face burned and his world vibrated through the fuzz. So much so that it took him a second to see the two moms separate, and to see who it was who separated them.

It was Dylan. He had grabbed Amy, and John, stood shocked, seeing his mother reacting warmly to Dylan hugging onto her from behind, his crotch smushed firmly against her ass.

Before he could focus more on the surreality of it, his mom’s loving smile as she pushed her gigantic soft ass into Dylan’s forceful, almost violating, thrusts, he suddenly felt soft hands against his hips. He looked over to see Gianna standing there, pulling him in closely. “Come here, sweety,” she said, or seemed to say, with the music drowning it out.

John felt her body meet his. She turned around, a half-circumference of her making itself known to him, and then he felt her ass, big and beautiful, fill his crotch. He moaned. A few behind him noticed the look on his face and laughed. He was too high to notice, too horny to care, and within a few rubs of Gianna’s beautiful ass against his crotch, he began to match her rhythm, and soon they were dancing.

Gianna felt John’s cock, stiff and stiffening, against her and she enjoyed it, loving the attention, loving the affection and the connection, the way she always had. Amy felt Dylan’s cock, itself throbbing and forceful, and she felt strangely blessed to feel it, the warmth of the interaction, as far as her mind currently interpreted it, like archetypal stories of connection. She felt him, his hips losing proper rhythm in order to maximize the pleasure and contact, and the thought of it filled her world with a sugary love, one which permeated every part of her.

John wanted to feel Gianna for as long as he could, and Dylan wanted to cum on Amy as soon as possible, just to know that he had, wanting that against her.

John saw it in Dylan for a moment, then he felt Gianna’s hands against his, guiding his palms up her flanks, and then, to his utter disbelief, up onto the mounds of her breasts. His hips still moved, but out of inertia alone, otherwise he was frozen stiff. She held his hands there, where he could feel her nipples in his palms. Then she squeezed them, and with that, her giant tits squeezed softly in his hands.

Seeing this, Dylan tried to imitate it on Amy. She felt his hands over her tits, and she smiled, then she grabbed them and slipped them down further toward her waist. Again, he let his hands come back up. She smiled again and resisted. The third time, even with Dylan’s anger implied by the motion, she let them stay there, squeezing away at her, figuring he deserved it as all things deserved what they wanted.

John then felt his hands against being guided, this time down below. They moved over the fabric of Gianna’s skirt, making him blush at what was implied below, and then, unbelievably, he felt his hands clear their hem and be shoved up within. He felt her thighs, and soon, the uncovered pubic hairs of her pussy. John’s mouth hung open as he felt around, feeling the wetness and the hidden intricacies of the woman.

Dylan seeing this, reached down toward Amy’s crotch, forgetting she had no skirt. He found only fabric, but he rubbed at it as if he would be able to rub through it, palming it, pulling it, all as Amy smiled and tried weakly to push him away.

As John felt around in Gianna’s most private place, his fingers moving over the lips of her pussy, trying to hold on from cumming while doing so, Gianna reached behind herself and began tugging the hook of her bra, leaning back as she did and whispering into John’s ear: “Can you feel how wet my pussy is, John?” She tugged her bra out from beneath her outfit.

Up on stage, ZZaxx and his crew performed. The microphone sat in his hand, picking him up loud and clear one second, then, in the next, his voice was muffled.

He looked down, seeing the gigantic cupped fabric which was draped over his mic. The crowd cheered, some laughing, a shock apparent in their reaction at just how big the bra was. Zzaxx’s face didn’t help in the matter, his mouth hanging open in shock.

“Hold up, hold up, hold up,” he said. “Stop the fucking music.” He held the bra by its strap, its body dangling, the music slowing and stopping behind him. He waited it to go quiet before speaking. “How big is this motherfucker? 34G? A G cup?” It dangled there, spinning in place, not answering. “Who does this beautiful – beautiful – thing belong to?”

Gianna stood there, smiling, as John awkwardly tried to dance and grind behind her, even without the music. She felt that warm flush, the sensation she lived for, coming to her again, this time on a whole new level. She put her hand up. “It’s me!” she called.

“Who?” he asked again not hearing her. Then his hype man got his attention and pointed at the beautiful woman in the crowd. “Well,” he said, his eyes lighting up. “Will you look at…”

He reached out to her. Gianna saw it as if it were in slow motion. She moved up toward the stage, feeling her chest swell. And before she was pulled up, almost on instinct, she reached with her other hand for her friend. They were both pulled up on stage. It happened so quickly, Dylan was standing there, looking at the empty space where Amy, and her beautiful body, used to be.

John looked up, his mouth dropped, not believing what he was seeing.

Gianna stood there, next to his mom, looking out at the crowd with a bright smile, and with her breasts all but exposed through her see-through top.

“Wow,” ZZaxx said, first looking at Gianna’s exposed breasts. “Both of ‘em. Whoah, I think yours are even bigger.” He was looking at Amy.

Amy looked back at him, her mouth open, in confusion, but still with the sense that whatever would come, it would be good, wonderful even, that tugging feeling in her gut told her so.

“You cuties here with your mans?” he asked.

“You can say that,” Gianna said, leaning toward the mic with a bubbly bounce which excited the crowd. “We’re with our sons.” She turned and looked, pointing toward a horrified Dylan. “There they are. Dylan and John.”

“God damn, we got two big-tittied MILFS up on this stage,” ZZaxx said to cheers. “I’m not surprised. Any nigga would wanna knock shorties like you up quick. Especially this one. I never seen an Asian dime with tits this big before. Her nigga probably bust in three seconds.” The crowd laughed. There was some cheering among the crowd, and in no time, the cheering became ubiquitous. “You all agree then?” The crowd roared in approval. “God damn!”

Gianna stood there with the biggest, dumbest smile. Amy did as well, but with a strange nervousness, one which didn’t sit well with her.

“So you still got your bra on then?” He asked.

Amy stared, unsure of what to say, feeling as if the question went too far. The crowd cheered.

“Come on, you can tell me. I’ll keep it a secret, just me and you.” The crowd laughed and cheered again. Amy looked out at them, their faces sending her a thousand little nodes of emotion, so much of it she felt overwhelmed, not sure what to do.

“Well?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, nodding dutifully.

“How big your bra?”

She stood there, shaking her head, almost childishly.

“Come on…”

The crowd appeared to repeat the request in their own way.

Amy felt the sting of disapproval, even just a hint of it, so much more vividly than she was used, which was already a lot. “H,” she said.

“H?”

She nodded her head quickly.

“Holy shit!” He said. He grabbed her hand, and he got her, with his other hand against her hip, to twirl for the crowd. “And this assss!”

Dylan looked up at her, along with every other face in the crowd, his own though vicious in its intensity, his sights dangling over that spinning ass, conjuring up a growling from his soul.

“If I could only have both their bras, my collection would be complete,” he said.

The crowd cheered. Amy looked out at them, helplessly, the warmth now becoming like a burden, one immeasurably brutal and unfair she thought.

She stared out at the crowd, and the cheering, as if to add to the cruelty, transformed into a chant. “Give – your - bra! Give – your - bra!” Among the faces in the crowd were those of women cheering with equal intensity as the men, giving a strange legitimacy to the whole proceeding. But it was when Amy had seen that some of the faces in the crowd, however few, were Asian themselves, that something primal was activated in her. She looked at them, then back at ZZaxx, and, with a nod from his head, she reached into her suit, grabbing her bra, pulling it out from within, and handing it, in its giant red garishness, to his happy fingers. The crowd cheered in triumph, and Amy, not feeling exactly happy, at least felt the stress fade. She began to smile.

ZZaxx handed the bra to his happy hype man to take back stage, then he turned back to the crowd. “You girls be my back-up dancers. Deal?”

Amy just stared, as Gianna nodded happily behind her.

Suddenly, the spotlights shook and snapped across the stage, doing so in time to the beat drop.

ZZaxx popped up in a bounce, raising the microphone to his face, he began:

“Got two hot bitches, on stage here, delicious.

Brought their sons from daycare. Look at how big these tits is.”

Gianna didn’t need a signal to begin dancing. Amy felt her friend’s hands along her hips, and then, saw Gianna’s smiling face, a face which brought her from her confusion, pulling her, almost with force toward the bopping rhythm of the music, and the warmth emitted by the cheering crowd.

“After this, they’re coming backstage for some fun

There’s no way in hell I’m going back with just one.

The lyrics were too quick, and Amy too wrapped up in her rising joy and the rhythm of the music, to hear what was just said. Gianna heard, and she smiled, feeling that ole’ familiar warmth coming back to her, this time near-unbearably.

Dylan and John stood in the audience, the only ones not moving, looking up at their mothers, looking up at the internationally famous rap star, standing there in the knowledge of what was just said, and said in front of a watching crowd.

ZZaxx’s black hands slid over Amy’s body, then switched to Gianna’s. Amy’s ass shot out in both directions, one after the other, its rhythm between that of the genre and that of the salsa music she had been taught by Sofia. Gianna seeing it, adoring her friend letting loose truly for once, stuck her ass out, feeling Amy’s ass against hers, rubbing them together, doing so for ZZaxx and the crowd.

Amy felt emboldened by her friend’s ass, emboldened by everything in the moment, and her dancing only grew in intensity. The black man’s hand slid over her every once in a while, and she let them, and she enjoyed that too.

“So hot, she could melt a shirpa when he freeze.

So easy and loose, she puts the ‘ease’ in ‘Japanese.’”

Gianna backed her ass into Amy’s crotch, pushing her with it, so that Amy’s ass could push more firmly against ZZaxx’s crotch. Amy felt the black man’s cock through his jeans. It was gigantic, much to her shock. Her arousal rose at feeling it, sturdy and long, and that sensation of arousal combined with the warmth at all the joy she was brining to him. She had no clue what dam had burst within her to make her this way, but she was happy it had.

Suddenly, as if possessed, Amy twisted her body, so her backside faced the crowd, and, without thinking, she began to twerk her big, shapely ass for them. They cheered at the sight of it, and Amy felt it like it were a thousand arrows made of pure love.

Gianna saw it, first feeling proud, happy to see her friend receive such praise. Then, out of nowhere, she felt something rising in her. She knew not the name of the emotion, but it spurred her on to do what she did next. She grabbed at her shirt, tugging it, until, to the cheering of the crowd (and the horror of Dylan), it was over her head. Her gigantic tits suddenly fell free.

Amy for a moment assumed the sudden rise in cheering was for her, until she saw the two bouncing globes in her peripheral. She looked over to see her friend’s tits bouncing, Gianna moving in a way, to make their bouncing maximal. She then, as if it weren’t enough, reached for her skirt, not pulling, but tearing it off, and suddenly she was nude everywhere except for her feet, which were still covered with her boots.

Amy’s twerking began to slow down, but as she saw Gianna’s body move, recognizing the sight for what it was, she stopped moving altogether.

Gianna moved, falling to her knees, her hands moving over her body, their fingers sliding down to her pubic region, past it, then to the ground, stabilizing herself to do the splits. She was nude but for her boots, which were now extended erotically to either side of herself. She came back up, her ass facing the crowd, bending over, giving them a nice, big view. Then she turned around, grabbing her giant tit, and lifted her nipple to her mouth to lick it for her legion of admirers. She was back in her element.

“Damn,” someone screamed from behind the two horrified boys. “Look at the udders on those whores.”

Amy moved back slightly, her step with a studder in it.

Gianna turned, fell to the ground as if tripped, and then she grabbed both her ass cheeks, and then she winked at the mass of faces.

Dylan lifted his hand limply. “Mom…” he called softly, barely audible over the cheering. “Don’t…”

Gianna tugged on herself, spreading both her cheeks open, exposing to the crowd both her holes.

The screen above, gigantic and unignorable, repeated the sight for those in the back who couldn’t see it. Both Gianna’s holes sat there, proudly, without cover, exposed to the multitude.

Dylan’s face was in his hands, pushing firmly into them as if he could find the oblivion within their darkness. But as he tried, he heard the voices behind him, bringing him back to this realm. “God damn!” “What the fuck are we watching!” “Look at this slut!”

John looked up, shocked and aroused, seeing Gianna’s body, its beauty, on such brazen and uninterrupted display. He knew there were a legion of phones, going all the way up to the seats at the ceiling, filming what was happening.

The beat stopped, the spotlight came back on. Gianna rose to her feet, slowly like a professional, and ZZaxx’s came in between the two ladies, his hands wrapping around their waists. Amy looked at him, frightened by the gesture, and all of a sudden.

His hands moved liberally over their bodies. “Holy shit,” he said, himself in disbelief. “What a fuckin’ show. This is going to go viral I just know it is. Tell me you’d see that at a K-Dap show.” The crowd cheered. He looked back and forth at the two girls. “How about we take the party backstage?” he asked.

Gianna looked at him, her soul screaming in joy, but her face retaining its erotic composure. She slowly nodded her head. He looked at Amy, expecting the same or similar. Instead, she looked at him, her face frozen, his first sign that it wasn’t to be. Then her head began to shake quickly. He felt her pushing against his arm. And soon, she was gone, moving down the stairs. He shrugged, looking at the crowd. “She must be gay,” he said.

As Amy, now sobering, moved quickly through the crowd, a sea of aggressive hands shot out, feeling, groping, and pulling at her, pinching her, and slapping. She felt the recent shame unfelt suddenly combining itself with the shame of her current predicament, and her pale face began to burn red with horror. John saw her, their eyes making contact, both their flesh the same hue of red now. John’s face was still. Amy’s was not, as it kept shaking with every smack against her giant ass.

As Amy’s arms found John, feeling guilt inherit in even that, Dylan looked up, seeing his mom, along with ZZaxx and his crew, disappearing behind the stage, her naked body wrapped within a strong black arm. He stared at the sight, his face not blank, but blank compared to what it should have looked like, unable to register it.

Amy leaned in toward him, promising to take him home, being groped still from behind as she did. John looked down at her giant red ass, its cheeks jiggling with every hand that smacked it. Her ass continued being groped and smacked, all while they left the venue with the crowd. It wasn’t entirely safe until they made it to the car. Amy’s ass would be sore in the morning. But compared to what the rest of Gianna’s night would look like, this was nothing.

Amy slept as heavy as a stone in her bed. The front door of the house squeaked open and it slammed shut, and she was none the wiser.

Not long after, John stood on Dylan’s stoop, his stomach unpleasant with fluttering. He looked down at Dylan’s text, wondering, with a tinge of fear, at what it could possibly be about. It was never simple with Dylan.

John realized just how right he was to be afraid when the door swung open, and, swinging with it, Dylan’s erect cock hung from his naked pelvis. He looked John in the eye, his hand on his cock, massaging it. “Well,” he said. “Come in!” He ushered John in with irritation. “You want my neighbors to see my cock or what?”

As John nearly fell inward, he looked to the right. And when he did, he noticed something which caused him to freeze. It was something so innocuous (much more innocuous than Dylan’s greetings) but which disturbed him just through how of it place it was.

It was a foot. Unmistakably a woman’s foot.

He felt Dylan’s hand slap his shoulder, jolting him. “Look,” he said, his voice husky with exertion, but also anger. A lot of anger, even for him.

As John was pushed, he saw the foot become a foot and a thigh. Then two feet and a thigh. Then, as they rounded the couch, John saw vagina lips. He stopped in place, only for a fraction of a second, and Dylan continued pushing.

The remaining body, nude from head to toe, of Gianna lay there.

“Bitch,” Dylan said.

John stared at her. She lay there, quiet, unspeaking. Then, at once, she mumbled and turn. Again, John felt a jolt shoot through him.

“Relax,” Dylan said. “She’s been doing that all morning.” He pushed John forward. “She hasn’t woken up yet. She’s on everything under the sun. It must have been a hell of an afterparty.” John could hear the way Dylan’s lips curled with disgust in his speech.

Gianna’s holes leaked, all three of him, and her body, thought beautiful, just seemed sore. Like it was uncomfortable to move.

“Fucking whore,” Dylan said, letting go of his friend and moving forward. He grabbed his mom by her hips, lifting her to her knees. He neared up behind her, grabbing one of her gigantic tits and squeezed it. “If she wants to act like one, I’ll treat her like one.” He pushed his cock into Gianna from behind. John watched, shocked. “Best pussy I’ve had,” he said. “I don’t know why I haven’t tested her out years ago. What was stopping me?” He said it as if he felt himself to be an idiot. “Who cares if she’s my mom,” he said, his cock resting inside her. “She’s just another slut. Like the rest of them.”

Dylan thrust into his mom, doing so slowly, then picking up in pace, until he was obliterating her from behind, do so as if she were just any common woman. Her cheeks clapped against his thrusting hips, and the vulgarity of his face matched the vulgarity of his thrusts. They both matched the vulgarity of his spirit. His face seemed to contort, not with arousal, though that was there too, but with a rising shame, one that came with a distant gaze, as if remembering. John knew his mind was alive with thoughts of last night. Dylan’s thrusting only became more intense and violence as his distress and contempt seemed to get worse.

John watched, not just horrified of what he was seeing, but horrified how it recontextualized what he had done with his own mother, especially knowing that Dylan was only catching up now to what John had already done.

Dylan looked up and saw him. The bitterness in his face was replaced, even just slightly, but his characteristic smirk. “What’s the matter. You never saw a guy fuck his own mom before?”

John blushed, almost as if Dylan knew. It took him a moment to realize he didn’t.

“Come on,” Dylan said, waving him over with a head gesture. “What difference does it make if she has one more?”

John didn’t understand, but he walked up anyways.

Dylan stared at him. “Lose the pants,” he said with aggravation. “Jesus!”

John did what he was told, his anxiousness turning to excitement, bit by bit. When he stood there, his cock hanging out, hard, he waited for what was next.

Dylan sighed without losing his thrusting rhythm. “Her mouth,” he said. “What else?”

John looked down at Gianna’s vacant face, her eyes shut nearly closed. He poked at her head with his cock.

“Grab her hair,” Dylan said.

John did, and realizing he could do it without hurting her, lifted her face. He looked at Dylan one last time for permission, then he slowly thrust his cock inside Gianna’s mouth.

“Atta boy,” Dylan said, his eyes lighting up. “Yeah, use her mouth good.”

John did as he was told, thrusting, looking down at the beautiful brunette with wide eyes. Her tits slipped against his thighs, and her chin, less painfully than he imagined, slapped against his balls. He was enjoying not just the sensation, but the control her had over the entirety of her head with just a fistful of her hair. Dylan enjoyed it too.

“I know you can only get in so far man, but try to get as deep inside as you can. Shove your balls in there too. They’ll fit. Mine did.”

John tried it, watching Gianna’s big mouth swallow everything. His entire cock and balls sat inside, gyrating around with limited motion, feeling every sensitive inch being pleasured by Gianna’s humid mouth.

“Yeah,” Dylan said. “That’s probably like a break for her jaw compared to what she was swallowing last night.” He looked down at her big ass and gave it a punitive spank. “I don’t know what to do with her,” he said grimly.

John thrust inside, feeling as if he was about to burst, not wanting to so soon.

“So,” Dylan said, interrupting his bliss. “Whose mouth is better? My mom’s or Tom’s.”

John looked at his friend, still thrusting, then he looked down. He stopped thrusting once he understood what had just been said. He looked up at Dylan.

“What? A little bird told me.”

John only stared.

“You think Tom would be able to keep his mouth shut about fucking your mom? Do you even know that asshole?” He caressed his mom’s jiggling ass. “Yeah, good ole’ Tom. He’s been wanting to fuck your mom since forever, you know?” He looked up at John. “I can relate.”

They stared into each other’s eyes, as still in their faces as if it were a face-off, yet their bodies were in constant thrusting motion, the table between them being Gianna.

“I want to fuck her too. And you, you want to fuck mine, don’t you? And you’re not above a trade. You’re Chinese. You know a good deal when you see one.”

John said nothing, fearful of what was coming next, but, at the same time, waiting for it.

“How about I trade you my mom now…” he pushed against her giant ass with his palm. “… in exchange for yours later.”

John said nothing, knowing that he wasn’t even standing on a slippery slope anymore, but was looming over a precipice. He could feel its darkness in his soul. His mom’s face, the shame she felt at that sea of hands which groped at her, flashed in his mind.

“Look,” Dylan said, motioning to a phone on the floor. “It’s hers.” He tapped the screen, and an image came up. It was of her, standing nude, her beautiful white body surrounded by a semi-circle of black bodies. Their cocks, big and monstrous, hung down, ready to be used. John gasped, knowing that that was a fate almost experienced by his own mom as well. “I’ll be sending you these too.” Dylan shrugged. “Just a gift between friends.”

John looked at the image, then up at his friend’s smirk. All the while he never stopped his thrusting.

He continued thrusting now, now from behind her, feeling his cock go in and out of her body, her ass flesh slapping against his pelvis. Dylan was at the other end now, looking at him, a smile on his face of what’s to come as his cock moved in and out over his mom’s slippery, warm tongue. Gianna, her body feminine and voluminous, sat helpless between them, their broken bread.

John, at the sensation and the thought of everything, both good and bad, felt those familiar waves coming on.

He leaned forward, his chest falling against Gianna’s back, as he began to cum inside her.

After he was finished, he heard something above. He looked up to see Dylan smirking down at him. Dylan held his cock in his hand. “And with that, you’ve signed on the dotted line.”

His face contorted.

John looked down to see him ejecting cum from his twitching cock onto Gianna’s twitching face. And with that, John knew, there was no going back.

---

Hey guys!

My sci-fi/fantasy novella is heating up with each new episode. We're already on Part Three, going on Part Four soon. It's available on Patreon, Subscribestar, and Smashwords. Links to all three below:

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