Commissions: Volume 5

The image above represents Autumn Jones from America Part V: Autumn

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Drum Solo

Edward’s mom, Mayra, was in the front row. She always was if she could help it. And as she bounced up and down to the music, her tits bounced with her, Edward’s second and third biggest fans.

Edward, at some point, had realized that the rhythm of her bouncing tits were his responsibility, as he was the one playing the drums. He hated it, but he couldn’t stop. The potential success of the band relied on him.

Even still, he couldn’t help but grimace every time he looked over and saw Keith at the microphone, screaming a Valkyrie melody as he periodically looked down, admiring the giant white cleavage as it bounced around.

Above that giant bouncing cleavage, Edward’s mom’s face looked up at him as if he were already famous. It had been that way for a while. First she came for Edward. Only for Edward. But as the months past, her attention would periodically be grabbed by Keith’s flashy antics and frontman energy. Then the attention seemed to be split down the middle, with her head pivoting from drummer to lead singer, and from lead singer back to the drummer, switching her gaze between her son and the frontman with equal joy. Though the joy she showed when looking at Keith seemed less wholesome than the joy which glowed in her eyes when looking into Edward’s face.

When they got off stage, Mayra’s hands wrapped around her son’s right arm. “Amazing!” she said.

“Thanks mom,” Edward said dryly. “I’m glad you think we’re always amazing.”

“You are,” she said, squeezing his arm with a smile. “That’s why I say it. Because it’s true.”

Edward wanted to believe that, but he knew the rose-tinted lenses that motherhood wore and he longed for the opinion of a third party. The other band members seemed to be as unsure about the possibility of success as he was, and trusting Keith’s opinion wasn’t any closer to the truth, as he was an extreme narcistic who thought anything he touched was gold.

Edward saw his hand come out of the darkness, pressing itself against Mayra’s lower back with all the intention that he showed up on stage.

Her head spun, her eyes with a moment of hope, and met his gaze. When she found him there, she smiled. “Good performance tonight,’ she said.

“You think so?” Keith said.

“I do. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t say it. I say it because it’s true.”

Edward mouthed “because it’s true” just as she said it, mocking her newfound catchphrase.

“It is true,” Keith said. He looked around plainly. “Yeah, everyone knows it. It’s going to happen.”

“I think it will!” Mayra said.

“You can bet your sweet ass on it.”

Edward had no idea how intentional that choice of words was. It came out so cleanly that it seemed like nothing, but he had never heard Keith use that phrase before, and it just happened to come out now when Edward’s mom was here.

Edward looked down at his mom’s ass. It rotated from side to side as she spun a little in place playfully. He had no idea if Keith had noticed it doing that or not, but he knew that his mom had meant it for him.

“Hey!” Edward said, his emotions getting the best of him. “Why are you so sure we have a future here?”

“I never said we did,” replied Keith calmly. And then his voice began to rise. “I said I did.”

Keith moved forward, most likely just to scare Edward, but Mayra got in between them, pressing into both their chests with her fingers to keep them apart.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” she said.

Edward began to calm down at first, but then he noticed his mom moving over to Keith, inch by inch, as she held them apart.

“It’s okay,” she repeated, her chest now only inches from Keiths.

Keith looked down at her, and she looked up into his eyes.

Edward felt himself getting nauseous, and what’s more, felt something in his throat. He turned around quickly and stormed off, disappearing into the crowd.

The band and his mother stared at him as he went. There was a moment of awkwardness. Mayra turned and looked up at the band performing on stage. She looked back at the others, and to break the tension, she said “good band, hey?”

“They suck,” said Keith.

Mayra pretended she didn’t hear the review and she began to dance to the music. The other two members of the band looked on jealously, noticing Mayra move subtly (though not as subtly as she thought) toward Keith’s pelvis, shaking her ass all the while.

After a short period of playful dancing without contact, Mayra’s giant ass found Keith’s pelvis one or two times.

Keith looked over at the others. He signalled them with his hand. “Beat it,” he demanded.

They both looked at Mayra a second longer. She pretended she didn’t hear what Keith said and continued dancing. They slowly began to turn and then they walked off.

The door to the van swung open.

Mayra and Keith stood at its entrance, looking in.

“I told you it had a lot of space,” she said. “I meant to tell Edward first, but I never got a chance.”

“It’s okay,” Keith said. “He seemed stressed today. I think telling him you bought the band a van would have only confused him.” He looked inside at all the room. He then looked back at Mayra, as if imagining her body inside the van with him. Not just imagining it, but expecting it.

“Hmm,” he said, and stepped in.

Mayra stepped in behind him, visibly excited to go inside.

She stumbled a bit and then felt a strong arm wrap around her lower back and guide her in. She giggled, and when she did so she knew she betrayed a lot about herself in just that one moment. And then she saw Keith’s face at the realization and it only excited her further.

“Mind sitting back here a minute?” he asked.

While asking, he patted Mayra on her right butt cheek, as if she didn’t know what part of her body she sat with.

She didn’t mention it, only saying “yeah, sure,” with her voice trembling with anticipation.

They began sitting, but as the minutes past, and the conversation became lighter, they both lay down. After a while, Mayra began to shiver and then Keith wrapped his arm around her. She felt his strength, and she adored it. And she knew that because her son didn’t know the location, or existence, of the van, whatever happened inside of it would be unknown to the rest of the world.

She scooted back towards him, making sure to press her ass deep into his pelvis.

When he pulled back from her, she felt a deep terror, but then a fraction of a second later she felt his strong hand grab at the waist of her pants and pull it down. The cool air nipped at her naked butt cheeks, and she smiled in the darkness knowing that he could see them now.

Within seconds, the chill against her ass flesh was replaced by the warmth of his pelvis. His cock was inside her. He began to thrust. Her cheeks clapped. They were now fucking.

She got up on her hands and knees and she revelled in the way he took her. He looked down at her ass cheeks as they rippled from his powerful thrusts in the moonlight which came through the window.

At some point, she was on top of him, feeling those hands clasp her butt cheeks. She then grabbed them by their wrists, then clasping her hands in his, and sat them on the van floor. She looked down at him as she rode for him, wanting to do everything to make him feel like the man she knew he was capable of becoming.

At the whole time looking up into her eyes, feeling the heavy weight of her butt cheeks bounce off his thighs, he thought about Edward and how good it felt fucking Edward’s mom.

Edward was the last to find out that his mom was being fucked by Keith and he found it out in the worst way imaginable.

Keith thrust his phone into Edward’s face, and the image that assaulted Edward’s senses was that of his very own mother, her body voluptuous and perfect, riding his worst enemy’s muscular body.

The other band members had to look away as Edward’s hand met his mouth and he began to weep.

“Use it to improve your drumming,” Keith said matter-of-factly. “Emotion does that.”

He tapped Edward on the shoulder, expecting him to get on stage.

Edward knew deep down that he shouldn’t be, that he should be doing something to defend his mom’s honor, or to at least get revenge on the man who just humiliated him. But as he tried to muster up the courage, he began to feel a weakness above what he was used to feeling. He couldn’t even muster a fist. Paradoxically, as he stood there, weak with his hand open and his fingers hanging, his cock was growing into a big and hard state. He had almost wished he could see more images of his mom being fucked, but he knew he couldn’t ask for those.

Keith tapped him on the shoulder again. “Let’s go. Let’s not leave our fans waiting.”

Edward was guided up to the stage, a shell of his former self.

He managed to find enough strength to get the drum sticks in his hands but that was only because Keith demanded it of him.

He looked out at the eager audience.

Then he saw something which caught his eye.

It was his mom.

She was standing at the back of the venue. She was near the bar, looking up at the stage. She didn’t seem to have any inkling that Edward knew about what Keith had done to her, and she smiled at her son and gave him a thumbs up.

The band began, and Edward was a few beats behind, but he caught up with the guitarist and the bassist quickly.

As they played, and the audience dances, Edward began to realize something was missing.

He looked to his lift to see an empty microphone with a spotlight on it.

He looked at the other members of the band to figure out what was going on, only to see them looking at the back of the venue with their faces white.

Edward looked over and what he saw caused his jaw to drop.

Keith was all over his mom, kissing her with passionate intensity.

She looked over Keith’s shoulder as she received the kisses willingly. She saw him looking at her and she didn’t do anything, only stand there awkwardly, and then, after some pushing, she began to engage with Keith’s activity more directly.

Through all of this, Edward was disgusted to see (and hear) that he was still drumming. He looked down at his hands, realizing that they were stuck in this state, unable to contradict the rhythm that the rest of his band was putting down.

He looked back up and every part of his body except for his arms and hands began to go weak.

His mom’s tits, big and luscious, were out and being squeezed by the same hands Keith was supposed to be using to hold the microphone stand.

Mayra received his kisses willingly, even as he gyrated against her ass. The bartender watched, smiling, as did many people at the back of the crowd.

Even still, Edward’s drumming didn’t stop. Even as Keith slowly began to remove Mayra’s pants and panties. And with that, his mom was topless and bottomless at the same venue he was performing at.

Keith’s cock came out not long after, and there was a stuttering in Edward’s drumming which came when he saw that cock inserted into his mom from behind. But the nature of the stuttering, it only lasting a moment, made the song sound even better, and the crowd cheered, exactly at the same moment Keith started thrusting.

As Edward watched his mom being plowed, not believing that it wasn’t a dream, he began to realize something which was chilling.

The rhythm that Keith plowed his mom’s ass with was the same rhythm he was beating out with the drums. The timing was so on point that Edward realized that when he slowed down, Keith’s humping slowed down, and when he sped back up, Mayra’s cheeks were clapping proportionately faster. Edward wondered if he stopped, would Keith stop fucking her entirely. He didn’t know. He was too afraid to find out, and, possibly even more, too aroused.

His drumming picked up its pace, and he watched, his cock throbbing, seeing Keith going faster and faster and faster. All of Edward’s drumming had built to this moment.

And then it happened, he could see it on Keith’s face (Mayra had already had three orgasms before this point). Keith was nutting in his mom. And as the song reached its crescendo, and Edward’s drumming reached its highest point, it all began to slow down with Keith’s more measured and satisfied thrusts, until the thrusting into Mayra’s ass stopped. So did the music.

The audience broke into rapturous applause. And everyone in the band, including Edward, looked out, shocked and astonished. Everyone looked that way except for Keith, who was now approaching the stage with a satisfied smile.

He ran up to the mic.

“I hope you guys enjoyed that instrumental from my talented band. But for the next song, I thought we’d include some content. I wrote this one after a fun fucking in the back of our tour van. The lucky lady, if you’re at all wondering, is our drummer here’s mom.”

There was some awkward claps in the audience.

“No, go on, go on. Clap. It’s a great story. And it’s a great song, I assure you. Okay guys,” he said, looking at everyone, including Edward. “I’ll start. Steve, Joey, just do the lines we talked about. Ed,” he said, looking directly into Edward’s eyes. “Follow my lead, okay?”

Ed looked out into the audience with shame. He saw his mom there, pulling up her pants over her giant and well-used ass.

The music started.

Edward got the sense of it pretty quickly, though he didn’t move.

“She was the best layyy. I ever hadddd!” screamed Keith into the microphone.

As the audience cheered, Edward saw his mom, her pants just making it up over her ass, look up at him. There was an awkward look between them. But then he began to notice the very beginnings of his mom’s smile forming in the corner of her mouth.

And with that he hit his first beat.

More followed, and in no time, he was providing the rhythm for the song.

“I fucked her pusssyyyyy! I fucked her assssss! I fucked her sideways, she’s a very lucky lassss!”

Edward’s arms felt energized. Mayra began to dance, her tits shaking to the music.

“Her son didn’t evennnnn, seem to knowwwww. Not even when I stuck it in her every single hole!”

Edward began bobbing his head as he played.

And then, in that moment, watching the crowd go wild - including his mom, whose tits shook violently with the catchy rhythm - he knew what Keith had known the entire time. They were about to be famous.

How could they not be?

When they had such a big hit on their hands.

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America Part V: Autumn

Autumn looked down at the white sheet.

“Hot Party Babe”

That was apparently her.

She looked up at the cast and crew, in costumes, holding clipboards, manipulating boom mics. They moved about like buzzing bees, each in his or her own goal-directed world. It was all a finely tuned machine, and she, being one small and insignificant cog in this machine, had to move with the same pace, and the same unquestioning resolve, or else be twisted out of shape within it, finding her new place in the forgotten abyss beneath it all, one piece of many in a rusted pile, easily replaced by any shiny new cog that would approach.

There was an infinite supply of cogs waiting to replace her out on the streets of this town. It was as if L.A. was the workbench for the human imagination.

Autumn knew this.

She looked down at her chest. Her giant cleavage looked back up at her, stonefaced despite their softness.

“Okay, girls,” she said to their milky-white tops. “Let’s knock this out the park, shall we?” She looked up at the ubiquitous commotion. “Thank god I have you here for moral support.”

The producer stood next to the casting agent, looking over at the very-visible redhead, who stuck out even among the busy fray which periodically obscured her. She was looking down, murmuring into her own cleavage.

“Jesus Christ, Lou.”

“You said you wanted one with big tits!”

“I said big, Lou. Big. Not fucking gigantic. This isn’t porn we’re shooting. This is cable television. Serious stuff. Art… Fucking art…” The producer murmured something to himself then looked back into the eyes of the casting agent. “You know how many old ladies – jealous old bags to be sure, but they’re our main viewing audience, Lou – you know how many of them are going to be bombarding us with calls over this? Their husbands had heart failure last week from seeing a titty magazine at 7-11, now we’re going to kill them at home…” He shook his head.

“I’m more worried about your heart.”

“You should be, Lou. You’re freakin’ killing me here.”

“You want me to let her go?”

“She’s not cut out for this biz. She should be working at one of those titty places. What are they called… Knockers?”

“Hooters, sir.”

“Yeah.”

“So you want me to kick her to the curb?”

“No, Lou. I want you to give her the keys to my offic- Yes, Lou! Kick her to the curb.”

“Alright, alright. Just…” before he could finish his thought, he walked off and toward the sore thumb, standing amongst the chaos, looking about it like a perpetual outsider. Her giant breasts her only friends in the room near-full of humanity.

The producer wiped his forehead and rested his elbow on the armrest of his chair. “This business…” he said. “First you’re herding cats. Then you’re herding foxes.” He exhaled slowly. “Then you’re herding the cats to herd the foxes. And the sheep at home just fucking chew grass watching it all.”

He looked around for his secretary. As he scanned the environment, from its one end to the other, for her platinum blonde head, he saw a flash of red, like fire in the distance, twice within those quick scans of the room. The second time, it was larger.

And by the third time he saw it, he also saw, below it, a distinct black line, swaying one way than the other, in between two plains of milky white flesh. Like all men, he couldn’t ignore it any longer.

He looked up, seeing the worried, tear-strewn face of the pale woman, her mouth readied for speech, with wetness at various points of her upper-breasts, her luminous tears falling as she moved.

The producer backed up quickly, fearing her rapidly approaching tits would knock him off his seat.

Suddenly, she stopped. Her tits were the last to get the memo, and they throttled forward, before falling back to her still torso.

He looked up at them.

“You have to let me keep this part!”

He pulled his gaze up from the giant pendulous breasts to the sobbing face above which spoke.

She lifted her arm and wiped her eyes.

“And you are?” he said.

“Autumn Jones,” she said, and she extended her hand for a shake. It was a habit she had learned in this town. Always touch them, they’d say. In every way you can.

The producer had seen it a million times, from a million potential sources of talent, and, as a general rule, refused to ever play ball. He kept his elbow resting next to him, his fingers empty.

He looked up into the woman’s desperate eyes. “Ma’am, with all-due respect. We run a business here. It’s….”

He stopped for a second. Then he looked down at her chest. Her breasts were gigantic within the bikini-top assigned to her by wardrobe. They had clearly understood the type of body that was required, even when Lou did not, despite that being his job, and their fine craftsmanship was being stretched to a thread by the giant breasts of the heavy-breathing woman before him. She wiped her eyes again with her other arm. Her breasts shook from the movement.

A smile began to form on his face.

He looked from her breasts down to her extended palm.

He extended his own hand and grabbed hers in his.

He shook her hand.

He looked back up.

Her breasts shook from the motion.

She was smiling, but when she looked down and saw the fat man’s eyes weren’t looking up and into hers, her smile faded. She followed his gaze, down to her jiggling chest.

Then she followed her arm, the source of her jiggling, down to her elbow, wrist, and then hand, seeing his fat hand wrapped around her slender fingers, throttling them back and forth in exaggerated mirth.

She impulsively wanted to pull her hand back, but she knew it would be a death sentence for any chance she had left of getting this part. She looked at him, his eyes widening as he looked down at the place where the bikini stopped, and her breasts began. He looked like a vulture, waiting for something to happen.

She looked away, off into the chaotic fray of passing bodies again, but unable to avoid the situation, which reverberated through the excessive flesh of her body. She stood there, trying to ignore that it was happening, but waiting, knowing it would.

She then felt it, the cold air of the set against her now-bare nipple.

Her body shook more, until there was very little left on her right breast that wasn’t being nipped directly by cool air.

The coolness was broken by a fraction of a moment when she felt the tip of a slimy tongue nip at her nipple like a deer at a salt lick, and then a second later, her breast was again half-covered.

The producer pushed the cup of the bikini back on with care. He pressed its fringe against the poor woman’s breasts delicately, and then he gave the whole ensemble a few pats before saying “come to my office back there and we’ll talk about it.”

Autumn followed his solitary finger, which was pointed over his shoulder at the room at the corner of the set.

She didn’t say anything, but she watched as he forced his enormous weight upward, and without looking at her or saying anything, he continued back in the direction of his office, looking around at the totality of the project with his swiveling neck as he went.

He opened the door, glided in sideways, and shut it without even looking back at her.

She stood there.

She felt someone bump against her hip, but when she looked up, there were a dozen people moving in various directions, all at around the same speed. She knew not who the culprit was, but she was sure by their busy demeanors that the contact was unintentional. She had simply gotten in their way.

She then turned back and looked at the door.

She then looked back at her giant breasts. She smiled sweetly. “I’m sorry I had to put you through that Miss Right. Good thing Lefty here had her eyes closed.”

She looked up again at the door.

“I guess this part wasn’t meant for us…” she sighed.

She turned around, and at seeing the daylight spill in from the exit, she began to move toward it.

Suddenly, a body rushed past her, and she felt a flush against her spirit, something visceral, something automatic, something intoxicating.

She followed the half-recognized blur, its essence like some deep part of her soul. Then she realized why the image had only taken partial shape.

It was because it was surrounded by a crowd.

The bees on the set had become a swarm, and they all glided around their source of gravitation like satellites. At the center of their brushes, and loose clothing on hangers, and scripts, and boom mics, was a woman. And as she moved, they followed. That was their job. To follow. Follow one woman. The source of it all.

That woman as Rosa Rodriguez. The star of the show.

Heads turned to catch her, even just for glimpses at a time.

Autumn felt her hip being jostled again, and she turned to see a man walking past her carelessly, rebalancing himself from the impact, not even apologetic, his focus entirely on the woman of the hour.

Autumn felt more bodies, both male and female, move past her hips, toward the more modestly shaped icon. The woman who adorned television screens across the nation, every night, sometime between 8:00 PM to 10:00 (depending on timezone).

Autumn herself stood, starstruck, feeling herself to be a satellite among numerous others.

And then she caught something in her peripheral. She looked down to see her giant chest, its subtle movement picking up in speed at her increased intake of breath.

And then she realized something. She was standing there in nothing but a tightly-fitting bikini, and still, somehow, she found herself to be invisible, or at least washed out within the blinding light of Mrs. Rodriguez.

She looked over toward the sunlight of the exit.

Then she looked back at that tiny door in the corner of the set.

She looked up at the clock.

It was 18 minutes until shooting started.

She looked back at the door.

She focused on it for a moment.

Then she looked down at her big, white tits.

They looked back up at her without expression.

“Ohhhh ggoooddd yyeeessss!”

Autumn only looked at the fat, hairy belly. She refused to look up at his grinning face. And she refused to look down at the hard piece of flesh which ran between her “girls.”

Sorry ladies, she transmitted to them with her mind. Even with those kind words, she still pressed into the sides of her two favorite girls with her palms, making them press together tight as one.

“Ugh,” he moaned. “Best pair of fucking tits I’ve ever fucked.” He grabbed her by the back of her red hair. “Lean down and lick the tip.”

Without looking up at him, she tilted her chin downward.

She saw the tip of his cock peaking out, emerged from between her cleavage.

“Go ‘head, give it a peck.”

It looked up at her. Its hole as solid a shade of black as that which existed between her breasts.

He pressed down on the back of her head.

She didn’t even remember opening her mouth. She only remembered the taste of it against her tongue.

“Yeah,” he said. “Lick that tip.”

She felt its smoothness and mushroom shape against her palette.

“The fuck are you doing?” he said. “Fuck it with your tits while you lick it.” She did as she was told. “And put some back into it!”

She looked down at her nipples, their tips almost touching each other as she thrusted her breasts against and parallel to the cock, the tip of which exploded in its flavors within her mouth.

“Ffuucck yyeess,” he groaned. “Before I can take it back, because I’m going to want to soon, you have the part. Congratulations. Now don’t pull back. I’m going to blow.”

Before Autumn could even react, she felt the first salty spurt against her tongue. She pulled back despite the command, and listened to her new boss for the day groan as she watched the tip of that cock gush volley after volley of white cum, all of it flying up into the air and landing on her only two friends in this town.

After he was finished, he laid back, satiated and loose. “You’ve just earned yourself the part,” he said. Then he smiled to himself. “Congratulations. You’re a glorified extra.”

Autumn felt a sting in her belly.

She shrugged it off with a smile. “As long as my sweeties here can come with me.” She reached over toward the tissue box on the desk to help clean the “sweeties” in question.

A fat pair of fingers touched the corner of the box and pushed it off, further atop the desk, away from Autumn’s reach.

She looked over to see the fat face those fingers belonged to looking down at her.

“If you wanna clean them,” he said. “You’re going to have to use your tongue.” He turned and looked up at the clock. “You better hurry up. You’re on in two.”

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Liam stood aside, watching John work. At some point, he had realized John was doing the lion’s share of the project, and though he tried initially to work to catch up, he eventually realized parity between them would be futile. He went from lead, to partner, to second fiddle, and at this point, he practically stood aside, watching his Asian friend as if he were only witness to the school project of another.

Liam periodically looked up at the clock. The minute hand was fast approaching the six. First it seemed a mile off, and he looked back at John, eager to get him sitting before the television with him when he was finished. But as the slender finger of that minute hand continued, he realized they were cutting it close. He almost considered stepping in to help, but then complacency got the best of him.

As the hand stood there, five minutes away, Liam began to sweat.

Two minutes.

The clock struck one minute forward.

“John,” he said.

John continued working, unphased.

“John.”

John looked up at him, squinting.

Liam laughed silently to himself at the flustered sight of John’s expression.

“Hey man.” He looked up at the clock, then back at his friend. “You watch Bad Mom, right?”

John sat next to his friend on the couch.

“It’s a reclining seat,” Liam said. “In between the cushion and the armrest. Dig in there.”

John did so awkwardly. He felt something stiff and plastic in his hand.

“You got it? Pull it.”

John pulled on it.

His legs snapped upwards with the suddenly-extended leg-rest.

“Ready for takeoff?” Liam said, smiled at his friend, and then turned to face the TV.

When Liam’s mom appeared on-screen, John looked over to the wall just left of the TV. The family photos hung there or sat on the mantelpiece with golden frames. Autumn Jones, Liam’s very own mom and the town’s biggest celebrity, stood in almost every one of those photographs, her breasts taking up an unreasonable amount of the total frame in each.

John looked back to the TV screen, and there she was, moving back and forth like a dream as music played. In one shot, John’s favorite, she stopped dead, with eyes of terror and shock, and her tits jiggled in her Knockers uniform.

“Autumn Jones,” the subtitle said beneath her.

In China, John was used to seeing it with an added subtitle beneath it in Mandarin.

“Jones Autumn,” he heard in school once. He saw Yun-chi approaching that day. He was still mad that his crush had admitted to her friends that she liked John. “Jones Autumn, Yixin,” he repeated with a smile. “That’s who your mom looks like. Big butt, big breasts. Like Chinese Jones Autumn. Jeh See Cuh.”

John didn’t say or do anything then. Yun-chi was a full three inches shorter than he was. He didn’t feel the need to have to.

John sat on his friend’s couch in the present.

Liam was three inches taller than he was.

He looked over at Liam subtly.

Liam looked at the screen with barely-hidden pride. He seemed to be a bit red in the face, as if he was even a little embarrassed by just how proud he was.

John turned and looked back at the screen. For a second, he had thought he saw his mom there, but when the shapely woman in red had turned her head, it was the occidentally-sculpted face of Autumn Jones which appeared on screen.

She was so beautiful she almost felt like a fantasy. Nothing more, nothing less. Definitely not a creature of flesh and blood.

John sat there, almost floating in place, still having trouble accepting that he was in her very home. It was as if he had been catapulted from the center of his homeland, over its mountains, valleys, and trees, past the shimmering pacific ocean, and then landing in a house, on the comfortable recliner no less, of a celebrity.

Her personality was so large, even when compared to other Americans, that he almost felt as if the walls themselves should have been dripping with it. Like her jokes would reverberate out of empty rooms in the house every so often like every nook and cranny was its own conch shell for her charisma. Instead he sat there, in front of a television set, which blared the Hot Mom theme song at him, in an otherwise dead home.

The only visible evidence that the star had ever been there, and it wasn’t very strong, was a slight depression in the couch laying against the window. John only imagined it was left by her because it matched, in very similar shape, the depression left by his own mom in the couch cushion back home. The same couch where he….

John admired the depression. It sat there, craterously. He could swear it was even bigger than the one his mom left on his couch.

“I must be good at this,” a female voice said on screen.

The audience laughed.

John turned to see Jessica in a gym, hopping up and down in place over the cycling string of a jump rope.

“Every one’s looking here for pointers.”

Her tits bounced up and down with each leap into the air as the audience laughed. They plopped up and down with such force that John knew she must have been in pain shooting this scene, just going off of his own mother’s reactions to much less.

“Yeah,” her personal trainer said with a weasly anxiousness. He looked out at the gym-full of onlookers forming around the two of them in a blocking-cognizant semi-circle. He looked back up at her with a grin. “Jump higher so they all can see.”

The audience laughed.

John heard a laugh to his left.

He looked over to see Liam laughing there.

John’s lower lip hung open. He was almost astonished to see Liam there, enjoying it all so carelessly.

Liam looked at him with a bursting mirth. “I think I know which writer was responsible for that joke.” He looked back at the screen. “It has his fingerprints all over it.”

One of the young men on screen, a muscular jock, reached into his shorts as his blonde girlfriend watched in disbelief. He pulled out his cell phone. She hit him on his shoulder. He twisted his gaze to her. “What?” he asked, innocently. “I’m just recording to study it for form.”

His girlfriend scowled at him.

He looked into the glowing face of his phone, his expression an idiot glee.

His buddy leaned over and whispered to him “’studying for form.’ I’ll say.”

Liam laughed again. “Yeah, yeah,” he said, pulling his hand from behind his head and pointing it at the screen. “I know exactly who wrote that one.”

The scene ended, fading to black as it did, and the commercials began.

Liam lay there with a grin. “It’s as much a surprise for me what the episode’s going to be as it is for you. Don’t think I have an insider line because my mom’s the star. She refuses to tell me anything.” He rolled his eyes.

Liam looked over at his friend.

“Oh,” he said, looking down at John’s waist. “I was worried you weren’t enjoying the episode.”

John’s brows furrowed. He followed Liam’s gaze, and realized where Liam was looking.

John saw his cock, erect within his pants, looking back up at him.

The heat rose to his face.

“Oh come on, don’t be embarrassed. Look at mine.” Liam pointed down at his crotch.

Liam’s cock sat hard within. It throbbed, as if it was trying to say hello to an old friend from a distance.

“Sorry, I was just excited for those extras. Getting to see those big jugs bounce in person. It must have been exciting.” He looked over at John as if he felt John should understand. Then a sudden look of epiphany came to his face. “Oh, before it starts up again, I have something I wanted to show you.”

Liam hopped off the couch and went down his hallway, into his bedroom. John listened to him rummage about within. He then came back out, still a shadow in the darkness of the hall, but with something hanging at his side. Something large and rounded in shape at various places.

When Liam emerged into the light, John gasped silently at seeing what the thing Liam carried was.

Its lowest-hanging strap trailed along the floor. John followed it up to its cups, which were gigantic in size. He then followed up beyond it, seeing the opposite strap in Liam’s gripping fist.

It was a bra.

John thought for a moment, almost wondering, for a mere fraction of a second, who the bra could belong to.

It didn’t take him long to finish the math.

When he did, his breathing stopped.

Opposite Liam’s fist, passed his grinning face, down his extended arm toward its wrist and then hand, panty bottoms were clenched with equal pride as if they were no more than a basic heirloom taken from the mantel.

Liam stopped at the couch and lifted the bra as if it were a trophy. “H-cups!” he said, knowing that the statement itself needed no further context. “Even your mom couldn’t fill these, John.” He looked at the bra with pride. Then back at John. “Not even if she ate Tony’s #8 special every night. My mom had to make these bad boys custom for her.”

He then looked at his other fist. He looked up at John and threw the panties at him with an underhand.

John’s hands shot up instinctively, even through his shock, and caught the panties, even as they touched lightly against his bottom lip.

Before he could even register what was happening, Liam spoke: “sniff them,” he said.

John looked up at his friend, over the colorful fabric of the panties.

Liam looked back at him, his expression stoic. He was being serious.

“Come on,” he said. “Commercial’s almost over. Sniff them before the show starts.”

John blinked.

He looked down at the panties. They sat there, yellow and smooth in his hands.

He looked back up at Liam.

Liam’s face was still firm.

John looked down. He leaned toward the upside-down triangle that made the crotch of the panties. His nose touched the fabric.

He took a sniff.

A slight chalky smell of salmon filled his nostrils.

He pulled back his head and looked up at Liam, in awe.

Liam was smiling now. “She left it in the hamper last time she visited. I’ve been storing it in a ziplock ever since.”

John looked at his friend, his eyes wide. He looked back down at the inert cloth. Could it be? Was it really the panties of Autumn Jones?

“Well what are you doing? Sniff it more. Take it all in.”

John did as he was told.

The most private scent of the famous Autumn Jones filled his lungs, his body being permeated with its very air. The shock of it was so profound that it was almost as if John never expected her to ever have a smell. John knew the American superstar Autumn Jones as a woman with a look and a sound, but the fact that she indeed had a touch, smell, and… a taste… not that different (while still being very different) from his own mother, only began to occur to him now, at least on that visceral level.

Liam looked back at the screen.

“Oh, it’s starting again.” He turned and looked at John. Without warning, he threw the gigantic bra at him, his own eyes carelessly looking away to the television.

John flinched and grabbed it awkwardly with his palm and wrist, the panties still dangling from the fingers of his right hand.

“Take that too,” Liam said. “And keep it while we watch.”

Autumn reappeared on screen, a half-realized vision of a human being.

She sat on the edge of a bench, soaked in sweat and breathing heavily. She grabbed her water bottle, flicked off its cap, and then lifted it over herself to douse her overworked body in cool liquid, but when she did, nothing came out.

She slowly put the bottle back down, her shirt, overstretched by the weight of her gigantic tits, a dark grey, dampened by her own sweat. She looked out at the crowd, her face filling the screen in an intimate closeup. “Anybody have a bottle I can borro-“

A dozen bottles, clutched in a dozen hands, appeared before her exhausted face. Her eyes went wide.

The audience howled.

John sat there, feeling as if his body had been lifted above the fabric of the couch, his flesh buzzing electrically. He looked at the screen with a new appreciation, with the legendary Autumn Jones’ panties on his chin and the giant cup of her bra over his mouth and nose as her son laughed along with the studio audience next to him.

He looked down at her panties again. Very subtly, he lifted it back to his nose.

He inhaled.

As Liam sat there, periodically laughing with the episode, he was counting the passing story beats, knowing them through intuition, measuring the remainder of the episode by them in place of looking at his phone for time. The whole time, an excitement grew in him, anticipation about what was coming.

John sat there, still taking subtle whiffs in silence, even though he was given permission. Liam inconspicuously looked down at John’s crotch. He saw John’s cock twitch, and he tried to conceal his smile at it.

It was coming, the final punchline of the episode, like clockwork.

As Jessica tampered with the weight machine, the camera focused in on the seat rest. A loose rope hung down over it, and the audience groaned in shock and anticipation, realizing due to an earlier scene that the rope would be pulled upward with the weights when the bar was pulled.

Jessica pressed the spike into the hole for her preferred weight. She brushed her hands with a satisfied grin. She sat on the seat and looked out at her sea of admirers, viewing their obsession with her through the lens of naivete.

She extended her arms upward, giving her audience (both in the gym and at home) a great look at her giant tits wrapped with the tight fabric of her t-shirt.

She smiled at them.

“Watch and learn,” she said arrogantly.

In one fell motion, she tugged down on the lat-bar.

The camera cut to the other gym-goers, just as the sound of a shirt being ripped played.

Their jaws dropped.

The scene stopped, music playing, with the image of their shocked and ecstatic eyes, as the producer credit was listed first below.

Liam artificially tried to conjure up a laugh, not because he didn’t think the scene was funny, but because he was just too excited for what was to come next to be able to produce laughter naturally.

John must have noticed something was off, because he turned to look at his friend. Suddenly, Liam’s phone, which sat there between them, began to buzz.

John looked down, seeing the image of Liam and Autumn, cheek to cheek, look up at him.

Liam grabbed his phone, shooting a wink at John before answering.

When John heard the voice squeaking on the other line: “how was I?” it took him another awkward second to register who it was he was hearing.

When it finally did register, he jerked in place, as if she’d be able to see him there, resting underneath the near-blanket of her giant bra, and within the wafting odor of her panties’ crotch.

Liam extended his hand out to calm his friend. “You were alright, mom,” he said, and turned to look at John. He was smiling.

“Just alright?”

“Yup,” he said, and reached over and grabbed her bra and lifted it to his friend’s bewildered face. “Just alright, mom.”

“You’re worse than the critics.”

“And they pay me nothing for it.”

“Crime of the century.”

“Of the millennium,” he said. Then he looked back at John. “Hey mom.”

“Oh no, not another favor.”

“This one is a small one,” he said.

John looked at his friend apprehensively.

“Do you remember that friend I told you about?”

“Which one?”

“The one from Hong Kong.”

John didn’t even try to correct him.

“Yes, yes, yes…. I remember… What about…”

“Here,” was all Liam said before extending John the phone.

John, with Autum’s bra and panties still sitting on his body, shot backward reflexively. He looked down at the phone as if it were a sea urchin being dropped within his lap.

Liam pushed it forward further in response to John’s sheepishness. When John backed up more, Liam pushed more, until John had nowhere to go, and the phone was now firmly within the palm of his hand.

John looked down at it.

Liam looked at him. “To your ear, numb nuts.”

He guided the phone in John’s hand up to John’s ear.

“Speak.”

“Hello,” the woman on the other end said.

John felt his skin begin to buzz. He could recognize that voice anywhere.

He swallowed a sea of spit down his trembling throat. He opened his lips. “Oh,” he said. “Hey…”

“John, right?”

John felt a shudder run through him. Whether it was a good one or a bad one, he couldn’t tell within the moment. All he knew was that Autumn Jones, the woman who danced through his perverse imagination, through his rough and rocky puberty, knew him by name.

“Y-yes,” he said. “I’m… John.”

“Hello, John. I’m Autumn. Were you watching my show with my son?”

John looked at Liam, who was smiling at him devilishly. “Yeah,” he said.

“How do you think I did?” John pulled his ear away from the phone, again on reflex. But as she continued speaking, he pressed his sweating ear back to its glass face. “My son is a tough critic. I think he’s receiving payola to give me bad reviews. I could… uh… use an objective eye. How was I?”

It was in this moment that John looked down at the bra on his chest, realizing that the breasts which normally filled those giant cups so beautifully with their flesh were on the other end of the line. “Good,” he said.

“Just good!?” she responded.

John almost thought he had done something wrong.

“Wow, you guys have very high standards over there. China, right? My son said Hong Kong, but I think he first told me you were from China.”

John couldn’t believe it. “…yes,” he said. “China.”

“Where in China?”

John said it.

“Is that near Shanghai?”

“Uh… a little bit west from there. But… close… a little bit.”

“It’s in the same province though, right?”

“It is,” he said.

“That’s amazing,” she said with glee. “That’s the only place in China I’ve ever seen. I don’t know if you’ve seen Operation Danger: Year of the Dragon.”

John had, many times. It was a huge hit back home. Everybody in his class had seen it. Especially the boys.

“I visited there for its premiere.”

John knew this. Everyone in his school did too. It was impossible to get to the set, even within a reasonable perimeter. The military had cordoned off the area to ensure the day went as smoothly as possible.

“It was a beautiful country,” she said. “I’d love to see it again.”

As she was speaking, John watched with horror as Liam tugged the very woman’s panties up John’s chest, over his chin, and toward his nose.

He looked at his friend with horror in his eyes.

“Sniff it,” Liam mouthed.

“How are you liking America so far?” Autumn asked.

John looked down at her panties. They were as red as the hair on her head.

“Good,” he said. “Amazing.” It came out of him in violent bursts, almost as if he were speaking quickly to keep her out of the room while some hi-jinx went on. It was as if he were living a moment from her television show, doing so in her house, with her own son participating, and with her listening to it all. It was surreal beyond anything most people could ever hope to experience, and even through John’s fear, some part of him, however deeply nestled in terror, knew just how lucky he was.

“I’m glad to hear it,” she said. “That town’s not much… not to most people…”

Liam nudged the panties further toward John’s nose.

John shut his eyes.

He took a sniff.

“But to me,” Autumn continued, as John took in the scent of what she had between her very legs which sat crossed one over the other, and did so in a different timezone. “That place was everything.”

The scent dissipated through John’s system. He opened his eyes. “Oh,” he said, with a new sense of calm, likely because this was the first full breath he took since he saw Liam answering the phone. “It’s a very beautiful place.”

“Really!?” Autumn said with excitement.

“Yes,” he said, looking down at the giant chasms that were the cups of her bra as if they were a national monument. “I’m enjoying my time here.”

He could hear her legendary body shifting itself on what sounded like a stool. “I’m glad to hear it,” she said, her voice brimming with pride. “Tell you what, when I’m back there, maybe we can have dinner with my son and few of the other guys. You can tell me all about China then. And… bring whatever you want… doesn’t have to be anything to do with me… or… it can be… but whatever. Just bring it and I’ll sign that for you.”

Liam tugged on her bra playfully and whispered to John: “Tell her to sign this.”

“Deal?”

“Yes,” John said.

Autumn laughed. “Okay, awesome. Now… before I let him get off without a scrape, can you give the phone back to the idiot sitting next to you.”

It took John a second to realize that she wasn’t actually mad at her son, that calling him an idiot was a joke.

As he sat there, watching his friend speak to his legendary mother, covered in her most private fabrics, he felt a trembling in his gut, one which was beyond good or bad. It just was, and the more it set in, the more he realized he had to hold on for dear life while he felt it.

The feeling only grew as John jogged home in the darkness, the legendary pieces of fabric - sealed within a ziplock, and placed carefully into his school bag as if they were scraps of the golden fleece - continually on his mind as he danced over the contours of her voice and conversation with his thoughts.

When he arrived at home, he was thankful that his mom was in the shower. When he passed by her open bedroom, he saw her bra laying there, its inner-cup facing upward, on her bed. Even just in that split moment, he noticed it was smaller than Liam’s mom’s. His mom washed those giant pale breasts in her American shower, unaware that such thoughts played with them mentally outside.

When John got back to his bedroom, he zipped open his bag, and when he pulled out the ziplock, he stared again at his red treasure, both pieces of it smushed together as if they were one. At opening up the bag, his room filled with their scent.

He pulled them out as one solid lump, and then he grabbed two dangling strings, and pulling on both ends, they fell as distinct entities onto his bed.

He looked down at them. Though gargantuan in their size, they seemed so innocuous sitting there. But at just the vaguest thought of what they actually were, John felt an electricity run through him, from the soles of his feet upward, which seemed to then illuminate the entirety of his bedroom.

John began to remove his pants and underwear as he stared down at them, and then when he stepped out of the waist of his pants, he fell down to his bed.

The underwear lay there, initially flat, but now being mangled by the thrusting of his hard cock. At the same time, he licked at the cups of her bra, imagining what it must feel like licking on her nipples (and knowing that out there, somewhere, someone knew the answer to that).

As John thrusted with his eager hips, Amy exited the shower, put a towel around her nude voluptuousness, emerged into the hallway, which billowed with a steam which ran against her within, and went to her bedroom, which she then shut for the night.

In John’s room, his thrusting continued.

He imagined Liam’s mom beneath him, facing away, nude form the waist down, with her giant tits spilling out of her Knocker’s top, shaking back and forth as he pummeled her soft ass from behind.

He enjoyed the thought of her giving him some resistance, failing, and then quitting at it for moments at a time while he thrusted ruthlessly into her, only for her to pick up a second wind for resistance again moments later.

His fantasies regarding her hadn’t changed since he entertained them in his bedroom in China. The only thing which had changed was the vague possibility that he could make it all real for once. The possibility was remote beyond remote, and he entertained no delusions otherwise. But just the knowledge that it were now a physical possibility ran through his body like leaves through running water, tickling his every bank and fancy.

John pulled the crotch of the panties against his cock. He watched as his cock pressed through them, making an impression, one not quite different than Autumn Jones had left on her couch.

He then imagined he was on that couch, pushing Miss Jones downward at the base of her neck so that she couldn’t move. He thrusted her from behind.

“You… you Chinese boys are so… *whimper*”

Liam stood off to the side, jerking himself off as he watched.

“Now this, mom,” Liam said with a smile. “…is comedy gold.” He looked at John as he jerked himself. “Try out her tits, John. H-cup.”

John looked down at her back, and her fiery red hair. He could see just the very smallest glimpse of the side profile of her face, but he could feel her bewilderment and awkward resistance below.

He reached down, pressing his fingers underneath her torso, even as she pushed her body downward to make it as difficult as possible.

“Not a single H-cup in all Hong Kong,” Liam said. “I guarantee it. If your mom doesn’t have ‘em, no one there does.”

John felt the breasts fill his hand. But as he did, he noticed something was off about them.

He looked down at the back of Autumn’s head, still only seeing the barest fragments of her face. Her forest of black hair looked back up at him.

He pulled his hand out from beneath her, then he rolled her over.

He was shocked to see that her eyes were narrowed with epicantic folds. She looked up at him, her skin especially pale. Her lips pouting. Her face flatter than he remembered.

John continued to thrust into her.

It was only when he let his gaze fall to the general area of her chest that he began to squint.

It was her breasts.

They were slightly smaller.

They jiggled there, still impossibly large, but less so than the legendary breasts of the great Autumn Jones.

He let his gaze crawl upward, and then his mouth fell open.

His mom, her head rocking upward and down again with each thrust, looked up at him.

John continued thrusting harder.

She looked up at him with eyes which begged, not necessarily for his thrusts, but that which his thrust promised.

He looked down at her with a grin.

“Congratulations Amy Li.” He spit into her face. She shut her eyes. “You got the part.”

Amy stood on the Knockers set of Bad Mom, looking out into an empty audience. The lights blinded her eyes.

Sitting there, a solitary figure sat, and she felt an anxiety tug at her. She knew she was supposed to be saying something, but what?

Suddenly she heard footsteps from offstage. Then a voice.

“Hurry up Amy! Let’s clean up this mess. Mr. Montgomery just pulled up outside.”

Amy frantically ran and grabbed the mop, her tits jiggling. She knew exactly where it was, and once grabbing it, exactly what to do with it. She mopped up John’s cum from the floor. As she did, her tits jiggled comically. As if playing it up for the audience, she pushed herself harder to get bigger jiggles.

The bleachers, now full with overweight white bodies and faces, were filled with laughter.

Amy smiled in the corner of her mouth.

She threw the mop handle towards Alice, who, in the same motion of catching the mop, her big tits jiggling from the impact, threw over a rag.

Amy fell to her knees in an equally impressive shifting of motions and began to rub the floor in circular jerks. Her body writhed hilariously at it, and her giant pale breasts shook for the hooting audience.

John thrust there into his bed, imagining his mom’s pale breasts swinging in circular arcs, the likes of which had a comedic timing as visceral and primal as that of any other injury or embarrassment. The audience howled, and the men within it looked on with greedy eyes. Their American faces scanned over her Chinese body, and the camera-men grinned behind their monoliths of captured imagery, which transmitted the image of Amy’s shaking breasts to an entire globe of gawking, squealing faces.

A whistling came from offstage, Hall of the Mountain King, and the audience, knowing that it belonged to Mr. Montgomery, groaned a tattle-tale’s grown.

Amy heard the whistling of her boss coming in.

She put her hand down on the floor, positioning herself to get up, and as she did, the camera focused on her palm landing on the hanging strap of her shirt.

Just as Mr. Montgomery was about to step in, saying: “Knockers! I’m home!”, Amy sat up.

And with that, the camera cut to the studio audience, just in time for the tearing noise, and then their wide eyes, which looked on the site of a topless Amy there on the Knockers floor, along with Mr. Montgomery, a million plus faces back home, all of them glowing in the light from their television screens, their eyes like pearls in their glassy astonishment.

Without even the sight of his own mom’s bare tits (which he had committed to memory), just the thought of all those faces witnessing them for themselves, John felt a shudder run through his body.

And with that, his balls tightened and nut after copious nut ejected through the shaft of his cock, all along the inner-cup of Autumn Jones’ red bra.

John humped as the waves of vibrating pleasure rose, reached a crescendo, touched it with their finger tip, and then fell, featherlike, foot-by-foot, toward the earth. With the last few moments of orgasm, John thrust into the bra, his bare ass sweating on his bed.

After his last thrust, and with satiation his lot, he looked down underneath himself, lifting his body, seeing the thin string of cum being stretched between the tip of his cock and the cup of the bra, he said “they’re so big,” in Mandarin.

“Tāmen tài dale”

Amy stood outside in the hallway, staring at John’s door. “What’s so big?” she thought. She held her towel to her chest. It accentuated her voluptuousness while also holding it all in. A slight tear in the towel’s fabric would have lead to her bursting out of it like a cracked cask would burst with ale. And though that voluptuousness was the source of it all, all which worried her within her son’s bedroom, it was the last thing on her mind as she stood there, in the hallway’s darkness, worrying about him. She didn’t know why she worried, only that she did, and, what’s more, that she should always trust her motherly instincts.

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

Amy’s big pale breasts jiggled in her tank top as she wiped down the dresser with a rag. She pouted with private angst, upset with John for not having done it himself. Finding a crumb of caked dust, she sprayed it down, pressed her thumb into her rag, and began to press it against the dresser’s wood, trying to force it away.

As she did, her giant tits throttled about in the mirror’s reflection. She caught sight of the movement in her peripheral and she looked up, but when she saw it was her own body, her tits still settling as she looked at them, she looked back down and continued, giving her all to clear the impossible stain, with nobody there as her audience other than herself, and she was uninterested.

Amy stood up straight and looked down at the bothersome mark. She grimaced at it, unsure of what it was or why it was so hard to remove.

She then extended her thumbnail to it, and getting leverage under it, she began to scrape at it.

A clear flake came off and rested on her finger.

She squinted at it. She looked back down of what was left of the stain and she wiped her thumb in the rag. She then kneeled down and got to work again, but on the second stroke, she felt a sudden pain against her nail and she fell backward.

Her big ass landed on the edge of John’s bed, and as it did, she was vaguely aware of a sensation against her butt-cheeks. But it wasn’t until her palm landed to her side to stabilize herself that she really turned her attention to the bed mattress.

She looked down at her hand. Underneath it, there was an impression coming through the bed sheets. Something large and circular. That’s when the awareness regarding what she was sitting on came. She sat up and looked underneath the shade left by her own ass. There was another triangle-shaped impression.

She stood up and looked down at the bed, squinting at the two shapes of foreign objects. She stood there for a long moment.

Suddenly she felt as if she were being watched. She turned to see herself, and only herself, looking back at her in the mirror. She turned back around to look at the bed, and then she slowly kneeled down. She grabbed the edge of the sheets and she began to pull them upward. The first thing she noticed peeking out at her was an innocuous strap, bright red, looking back at her. It wasn’t until she lifted the sheets higher, and she saw what the triangle shape resting on the flat of John’s bed was, that her expression began to take shape.

First it was a look of bewildered shock, and in no time, anger began to take over. She lifted the sheets higher, thrusted their edge up into the air, above her own head.

The red bra looked up at her, its two oversized cups like eyes, a circle within the larger circle, from the depression left when it was kept beneath the bedsheet. The depression at the bra’s center began to uncompress itself, and as Amy squinted at it, it responded to her with a muted pop, its cup finally extending out into its usual shape, big and round.

John walked up his stoup, his stomach and loins rife with playful tingling as he imagined what that lacy red bra would feel like again with the enormous dome of its cup dragged along the shape of his testicles. He longed to just get the sight of it if nothing else.

When he opened his front door, he realized he wouldn’t have to go very far to get just that.

The red bra dangled in mid-air, rotating slightly from right to left and from left to right before him.

His mouth fell open.

Amy’s forefinger and thumb held the end of the bra strap as if it were the tail of a dead mouse.

John looked into her eyes, and though her expression was flat, the fury within her irises was like an inferno.

As John stood there, the color of his face slowly began to change until it matched the color of that giant bra.

“Pervert,” she said in almost a whisper. It was a quiet accusation, but one which burned against John’s flesh.

He stood there for a moment, only staring. Then he opened his mouth. “…what?” he said meekly.

The ignorance was self-evidently being feigned, everything about John’s body language spelled it out loud and clear.

Amy sidestepped his little show. “Where did you get this?” she asked.

“It’s not…”

“WHERE…” she exploded in a sudden jolt. She continued the rest of the sentence with the simmering stoicism which characterized her speech up until now: “…did you get this?”

John didn’t say anything. Not only was his speech impossible, his throat tightening up to a pinhole from fear, but even if he were to explain it, would his mom even believe him? The bra of a worldwide celebrity stashed underneath his bedsheets like a loose sock or undershirt? There was no way she would.

John was silent.

“So this is why your grades are slipping…” she tugged on the bra and it bobbed in the air with a jiggle and then fell relatively settled again.

John tilted his head at the statement.

“An A+ to and A- in History,” she said with disgust.

John’s face fell. He was in shock. The change in grade she just recited was more than accurate, but it was only now that he had even considered the thought that a drop so minor, one which could be chocked up to circumstance, mere statistical noise, could not only be seen as a great failure to her, but had evidently been something which steamed inside her like hot coal dropped into sand. He had known her all his life, known her better than anyone else, and even he underestimated just how anal she could get over a simple plus or minus sign.

She tugged on the bra again, and as it shook in the air, her own massive tits shook with it as if the two were one (or the four were two).

A perverse thought came to John as he witnessed both sets of mounds shaking at once, and though his mother couldn’t read his mind, the shame burned on his face all the same.

“Pornography!” his mom said suddenly.

John froze up, believing for a half-second that his mom actually could read his thoughts.

“That’s what it is,” she continued. “It’s pornography. And social media. And all this… this… garbage. This degenerate American garbage.”

John watched at her outburst, stunned by its ferocity, its intensity likely at the apex of a buildup of indeterminable length but of estimable size. He stood there, stunned by the iceberg’s icy tip, knowing that it implied only so much more beneath it.

“That is what’s making you like this.”

John stared at her, unsure of what to say. When she looked from the bra back into his eyes, he looked down at the floor in humiliation. He opened his mouth, about to protest and to claim falsely that he never watched porn, but he just couldn’t.

“I’m taking away your internet, John.”

He looked up, his eyes wide, mortified and panicked.

“Just for now,” she said, that sentence being the only glimmer of light in her speech. A distant hope, perhaps the only thing which kept John from blacking out right then and there.

She turned around and went for the kitchen. John watched the bra, only an object of joy not so long ago, as it trailed behind his mother’s round behind like a ribbon in the breeze. She grabbed something from the kitchen table. John tilted his head and leaned and he could see that it was Autumn Jones’ panties.

Amy stepped on the pedal of the trashcan. Its lid opened with a *thwop*. She extended her arm over its open orifice. She dropped in the panties.

John shut his eyes in pain.

His mom, as if sensing it, looked back at him. “Go to your room, John,” she said. She turned back around and looked at the bra in her hand. “Go study.”

John said nothing, he only went obediently, rounding the wall of the kitchen and continuing down the hallway, doing so knowing that important heirlooms of American culture were being discarded, relegated to mountains of trash a few miles south of the town.

Amy heard his bedroom door open and then she heard it close. She was still looking down at the bra. It hung perilously over the open mouth of the trashcan.

She came back into her room.

She sighed to herself. She began removing her clothes, and when she threw them on the bed, she stood there, in her underwear before her mirror. Her black bra carried her giant tits. She cupped her right breast and then adjusted it. Then she looked at the red bra on her dresser.

She shook her head, ashamed of herself for not being able to throw it away.

She sighed once more, and then, as if a decision had been made, both hands went behind her back and in no time her bra became unclasped and her giant tits fell free. She felt the familiar feeling of their undersides plopping bare against her ribs. She looked at her nipples in the mirror.

She then looked down at the mysterious red bra. She reached for it, grabbed it by its ends, pulled it up to her chest, looked one last time within the giant empty space within their cups.

“Might as well,” she mumbled.

She pulled the bra towards herself. When she felt the silky embrace of those inner cups hug the welcoming sensitivity of her breasts and nipples she almost let out a pleasurable shudder.

Her hands went behind her back once again, this time carrying the end of a bra strap in each finger, and she linked them up behind herself. After she did, she slowly let her hands fall to her sides, wary that the bra, due to its gigantic cup-size, would fall off her chest. Much to her happiness, it did not.

She looked at her giant tits spilling up and over the top of the bra, its red embrace playing nicely against her pale skin and the long and dark line of her cleavage.

Like a glove.

It was as if it were meant to be.

She smiled.

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

“Extra extra!” Tom yelled with his phone up in the air. “Famous sitcom star is humiliated! Read all about it!”

Liam sat there, annoyed with his eyes wide. The ends of his fingers were touching and his elbows rested on his thighs as he leaned forward. He looked up at Tom. “You think you’re breaking new news to me? Keep it down. Someone might hear you.”

Dylan laughed, sitting against the outer bricks of the school. “Everyone already knows.”

“I know they know,” said Liam. “Let’s not draw any attention to me then.”

Leo stood leaning on the wall, on the other side of Liam, and watching with a half-grin.

John stood off to the side. He tried to subtly step toward Tom’s phone, to get a glimpse of what was on its face, without Liam noticing.

When Liam did notice what he was trying to do, he looked at John with something in between amusement and bemusement. “You can look it up on your own phone, idiot. It’s not like Tom took these pics himself.”

John back-stepped into his original standing position, embarrassed.

“Holy shit,” Tom said, looking down into the face of his phone. “What a fuckin’ ass.”

“I already have it saved on my shit,” Dylan said.

Tom looked to Leo, and extended his phone toward him, right under Liam’s nose.

Leo waved the phone away with a slight and awkward hand-motion.

Tom pulled his hand back and looked at his friend, confused.

Leo looked to Liam to see that he wasn’t being watched, and he looked back at Tom and mouthed “I already seen them.”

Tom smiled, then he looked back down at the images. “Wow,” he said. “That paparazzo asshole really got her good, didn’t he?”

“Sure did,” Dylan said with a placid bliss. “He su-u-u-r-re did.”

John was subtly thumbing the face of his own phone screen, trying not to look too conspicuous. Even still, he could feel Liam’s burning eyes, knowing that he was being watched through his friend’s peripherals.

When John found the photos on google, his poker face was lost.

Autumn Jones, the fiery nymph of a woman, walked away from the camera, looking back at the pursuing photographers, their eyes John’s now as he looked down at the product of their snapping. Her skirt floated upwards, as carelessly as drapery on a windy day, and the contents beneath that drapery, though sacred and legendary, sat there, exposed as any other object would be in space.

Autumn Jones, adorned beneath by a fabric of a similar color to the one John’s mom had just disposed of in their common household trashcan, had a full second of obliviousness, as could be deduced from the placidity of her face within these photos, about her giant white ass being exposed to the camera by the wily playfulness of the wind, as if the paparazzi and the elements were working as one organism.

Its two gorgeous pale cheeks, their size impossibly large and their constitution impossibly soft, peeked back at John, and he blushed as if she were looking back directly at him. He heard her giggle the same way he had heard it on the phone.

“John?” Liam asked rhetorically, dragging the length of his name out dryly. “Whatchu lookin’ at?”

John shut off the face of his phone. Ms. Jones disappeared into a blackness which reflected the clouds in the sky. “Nothing,” he said, and he shook his head.

Liam stared at him for a moment. Then a smile formed, just at the very corner of his mouth.

John’s brows furrowed in confusion when he saw it.

“Goddamn, Liam,” Tom said. “How does it feel to have a mom who’s not only famous, but her tits and ass are famous too?”

Liam dragged his half-grinning gaze away from John and looked at Tom, carrying the same subtle mirth over and into his response. “Heh,” he started with. “You’re one to talk, right?”

Tom’s face dropped. “What do you mean?”

Liam smacked his lips dismissively.

Dylan started laughing. “You don’t know?”

“If you guys have something to say, just say it. I don’t have enough autism to understand your little comments.”

“Okay,” Dylan said, and he began to reach into his pocket. “Let’s go to Instagram and see just how famous your mom – her ass and her tits – are.”

As Dylan pulled out his phone and began scrolling through it, Tom said “that’s not fame. That’s just a few Instagram followers. Everyone has followers on social media now.”

“Yeah,” Dylan said. “357 thousand followers.” He pointed the face of the phone out so everyone could see. “Give or take.”

John leaned in, catching a great sight of Tom’s mom Evelyn’s giant chest. The image was so well-photographed and pristine that Evelyn came across as something foreign and untouchable to John. He completely forgot in that moment that he had seen those very tits, completely naked and being washed by the same fingers which held her wine glass to her face in the image.

“Look at those rainforest-saving tits,” Dylan said.

“Fuck you,” Tom replied.

“’The power of motherhood?’” Dylan quoted. “What the hell does she mean by this, Tom?”

Tom’s mouth was curled up into the shape of anger, but the rest of his expression displayed a helpless embarrassment.

Dylan continued, quoting the caption below the image in a combing whisper: “’Motherhood is feminism. It’s knowing your vices and your virtues, and your preferences and your limits. It’s what gives life meaning….’ Yada yada… ‘Mary was a mother…’ Jesus, does she ever shut up? Look at this.”

He extended his phone out for the others. It was the image of her and Tom in Rome, her upper-body still dressed for the beach as her embarrassed son stood next to her. That image had gone viral before, first on Instagram, before finding new life on various message boards and image harvesting sights, being gazed upon for reasons which betrayed the stated goal of the post in Evelyn’s excessive diatribe.

Tom stood there, looking as embarrassed in the present as he did in that photo. “She reposted it again…” he said.

Liam was squinting in the sun. “Why not? Since it did so well the first few times.”

Dylan pulled the phone back to his greedy gaze. “Look at those things. I’m not sure why she wastes so much time posting about hunger in Africa. She could feed the whole continent if she just unhooked that bikini top.”

Tom’s embarrassment began to retreat in place of a fast-approaching humor. “No,” he said. “She’s not going to do that. She’s not your mom, Dyl.”

Dylan looked up. The others were surprised to see the sudden shock on his face. He seemed to be completely blindsided by that one, despite having an entire life full of experiences which should have geared him toward seeing it coming, and possibly expecting it at all times.

“Except...” Tom continued. “…when your mom does it, it isn’t to feed anybody. Only her own appetite for attention.”

Dylan shut off his phone and began putting it in his pocket, doing so with enough deliberation to superficially appear unbothered by where the conversation had turned.

“So whose mom is really famous for her tits?” Tom asked rhetorically. “Because unlike yours, we haven’t all seen my mom’s tits nude.”

When Dylan snorted, his eyes wide, Tom could only assume he did it out of nervousness alone.

Dylan looked to John, winking without winking.

John averted his gaze, terrified Tom could find out about the video of his mom in the bathroom by just John’s reaction alone.

“Isn’t that right?” Tom continued. “How many videos have we all seen of your mom’s tits going free whenever a new band is in town? Pearl Jam. Coldplay. Guns N Roses. How many other frontmen have seen your mom’s giant tits, Dyl? She’s so famous, she’s known by famous peop-”

Dylan burst in, his anger palpable, thinly disguised by mirth: “Well, unlike Leo’s mom, my mom at least meant for her tits to be seen.”

“Fuck you,” Leo said.

“But seriously though,” Dylan continued, happy for the conversation to be dragged, however awkwardly, off the giant breasts of his whore mother. “How crazy would all those people go, the ones who comment on her youtube videos, if they seen that footage we had you take of her?”

“Shut the fuck up!” Leo demanded with all the urgency of someone throwing themselves on the lid which contained all evil.

“I’m just saying… how many subscribers does she have? It was like 40k last time I checked. 38 of those have to be for her body. No one is watching salsa instructions because they love salsa that much. The comments prove it. Always talking about that perfect ass and the way it shak-“

“Shut up, I said!”

“Imagine if they could see what we’ve seen on her?”

Leo closed the gap between himself and Dylan within a second. Liam backed up against the wall to let him pass and Dylan stood up to absorb the shock. As Leo began pushing his friend into the wall, mostly just to scare him enough to keep his mouth shut (and failing, Dylan kept going all the while), Tom stepped in to try to break it up.

Liam approached John, his hand landing on John’s wrist. “Let’s get away from this circus. Now’s our chance.”

They could still hear the commotion of their friends as they walked off, talking.

“Your mom wouldn’t happen to be famous in Hong Kong, would she John?”

“No,” John said, shaking his head. “She’s not even famous in China.”

“Huh,” Liam retorted. He shook his head. “No, she’s got to be famous somewhere.”

John thought about it. “In Tom’s basement,” he said.

Liam laughed. “Yeah, I guess. That’s a kind of fame.”

John thought some more. “And in this town. She’s pretty famous here. At least I think so.”

Liam nodded. “Yeah… yeah… You think right. She is.”

John looked up and he saw two students in the distance looking down at their phones, then up at Liam. “Not as famous as your mom.”

Liam looked up and saw them. He smiled. “Can I tell you a secret?”

John looked at him.

“Today’s a good day.” He looked at John, and when he saw the bewilderment on his friend’s face, his grin got bigger. “I gave you her underwear for a reason, John. If I could sell them on ebay, I would have done that. Not even for the money. Just for the buzz. But I know I can’t.”

John’s face began to unwind its stoicism, all without his awareness.

“Just to expose her more,” Liam continued. “I love the thought of having her out there. But if I were to do that, everyone would know it was me. Or, at least my mom would know.” He exhaled with a sombre energy. “Did you know that late night talk shows aren’t live?”

John still couldn’t find words. He simply waited for his friend’s monologue to continue.

“They record them in front of an audience. But they edit the footage and put it out later in the day. They record it all in the afternoon or the night before. It’s like her show. All squeaky clean and pre-approved for television. Despite all the dicyness and teasing, you’re never going to see anything they don’t want you to see.”

More people in the distance, unaware of the nature of the conversation Liam was having with John, stared at the starlet’s son, each with minds filled fresh with thoughts of his mom’s perfect ass and bewildered-but-gorgeous face.

“So even if something were to happen – say a wardrobe malfunction, something put together by a mischievous pair of hands and an ambitious mind – the world would never see it. The studio audience would. There’s been some close calls on her show. But that’s about it. Even if those close calls came to something – her being seen by her luckiest audience yet, lottery-winners every last one of them – it would never make it to the television screens of every American home.”

John’s mouth was dry, nervous by the turn in the conversation rather than by its content alone.

Liam was a silent for a moment. Then he spoke. “That’s why I’m happy with what that cameraman caught. Very happy.” He laughed. “The world deserves their little glimpse at America’s mom. They deserve more than just that. Hopefully this is just the beginning.” He stopped walking and looked at John. “Would you like to come to my place. I have something to show you.”

John took a moment, but he forced himself to nod his head. “…sure.”

Liam continued walking. “These are a lot better than what the paparazzi took, I’ll tell you that.”

John swallowed.

“They’re a lot better than her panties and bra.”

Little teddy bears of various colors moved along the fabric they were emblazoned on, first up and then down, in opposing patterns depending on whether they were on the right side of the screen or on the left.

“I bought her those pajamas,” Liam said, his hands behind the back of his head as he sat on the couch.

John stared, shocked by how big Autumn Jones’ ass looked when represented by teddy bears.

Some of the bears disappeared, swallowed by the deep fissure between her butt cheeks.

“Watch this,” Liam said.

Autumn jumped on her bed, chest first, and when her body stopped against the absorbing mattress, her ass was the last to get the memo. John watched it as its gargantuan cheeks, their immense surface populated by a civilization of rainbow-colored bears, jiggled itself back into stillness. The bears were smiling.

John watched astonished.

“Finally,” Autumn said in the video, and her son said currently on the couch. “A place to lay my weary head.”

John looked over at his friend.

“Sorry,” Liam said. “I’ve watched this video quite a few times. I know it like the back of my hand.”

John turned and looked back at the screen.

Autumn turned onto her elbow and looked upward, her eyes focusing on what John assumed to be Liam’s face.

“I told you it was a nice place,” she said.

“I know,” he said on screen. “I wouldn’t expect you to live in anything less.”

“It’s an app,” he said, now sitting next to John. “It lets me film, but with the face of my phone black. I just hold it down at my thigh and nobody’s the wiser. Especially not her.”

She laughed at one of her own jokes and shifted in place. Her giant butt cheeks were the last to shift and the last to stop shifting.

“Afterall, why would a son film his own mom?” There was some silence as the mesmerizing video continued. And then “John?”

John looked over.

Liam was looking at him with a confident stoicism. It was as if he had already practiced this. He looked down at John’s crotch. He then nodded his head toward it once. “Pants off. Okay?”

John only stared at him.

“If you get to watch her in her private mother-son moments like this, I at least get to see how much it gets you off.”

John stared for a moment longer, then nodded back, though he had no awareness that that was what he had done. He looked down at his crotch, seeing his cock throbbing within his jeans, with Autumn Jones’ pajama-clad ass still jiggling and shifting about in the background. He put his fingers to his fly and he began to unzip.

By the time his cock came out, the scene of the video had changed.

Autumn Jones’, her silhouette as famous as the Venus de Milo’s, walked about, ghostly-like, draped in the translucent ectoplasm of her nighty. The cheeks of her ass stared back through that transparent film straight into John’s awareness and memory, with a golden triangle, upside down, at the top of her butt-crack, the only indication that she was wearing underwear beneath.

“She never wonders why I walk around the room so much when she’s dressed like this. If you like what you’re seeing, keep watching. I get a really good close-up.”

He wasn’t lying. John’s lower lip fell open, his control over his own face completely gone, as he watched the camera close-in awkwardly on her near-nude ass the way thousands of on-set cameras did the same, more professional in form, to the cheeks of her face.

John could see the inside of her butt-cheek, and the bikini string which ran through it.

The scene changed to her giant chest, its bottom-most parts dipped beneath steaming water like bobs on a fishing line.

“She doesn’t seem to wonder why I risk ruining my phone by playing with it in the jacuzzi so much.”

“Liam,” she said.

“Yes, mom?”

Her foot shot out of the water, sending droplets onto the lens. She presented its sole to him. “Smell my feet.”

“Yuck,” he said. “No, mom.”

“Come on,” she said. “I need to know if they stink.”

“They do, get it out of here.”

“They didn’t,” Liam said in the present. “I assure you.”

“Here,” she said, and she put her tongue in the corner of her mouth and began to fish below the water’s palpitating surface.

“Hey!” Liam said.

She pulled up his foot and then held it to her nose. Her face contorted into one of shocked disgust. “Yuck,” she said, pretending to be about to puke.

“Fuck you,” Liam said, playfully. John cringed at hearing it, still incapable of understanding how easily westerners swore to their own parents.

Autumn let go of her son’s foot, and before it fell back into the water with a splash, its heel hooked the uppermost part of her bikini top. It dragged slightly, pulling down her top a surprisingly large distance without ever finding nipple, before losing traction, and it fell back into the water unceremoniously.

“You see that?” he said. “I tried to expose it for the camera.” He breathed in for a second and then out. “I wish I succeeded.”

John looked at those famous giant breasts, and pondered wordlessly about how such great moments could hinge themselves on such small logistical circumstances. If Liam’s foot was just in and inch over, or had a bit more weight to it, if he thrust it out there with just a smidge more force, this would have been a very different video.

He had no idea how much that insight was determined to prove itself true.

“Watch this,” Liam said.

“Well, the stench of that thing almost knocked me out. I guess I should get to bed before… you know… just the thought of it does the same.”

“Goodnight,” he said.

She turned around and grabbed the rim of the tub, then she pulled herself up, and as she did, the surface of the water did, to a small extent, what Liam’s foot had failed to.

It grabbed to the uppermost part of her bikini bottoms, and as she rose above the water, it pulled downward.

It was only a smidge of tension before her ass cleared the water, its giant surface dripping wet with moisture, but it was enough to pull her bottoms down so that the uppermost part of her butt-crack was visible.

John’s breathing stopped. He was aware of nothing else, not even Liam looking at him for a reaction in his peripheral. Even his cock, which throbbed before the image, was invisible to him because of what moved beyond it.

Autumn Jones, legendary star, stepped out of the jacuzzi, grabbed a towel, and wrapped it around her body, obscuring the darling image of her, the one that paparazzi vultures could only pray to the unholy gods to have a shot at procuring, and she walked out of the bathroom, and out of the shot.

Then her hand came back in and flicked off the lights.

“Hey!” Liam said.

“Oh,” she said, flicking them back on. “Didn’t know you were in there.”

Her hand pulled itself out of the room, and she was gone.

John hadn’t even realized it, but he was jerking himself off.

“Just wait,” Liam said. “I can do you one better.”

At that, John stopped jerking.

“Watch this.”

The scene changed back to daytime. The California sun spilled in through the window and into the kitchen.

Autumn Jones, recognizable from behind, did something over what appeared to be a stove. Her clothing was rather unremarkable. It was black, and only became of note because of the natural shape of her body, which accentuated the fabric in all the right places.

“It smells good,” on-screen Liam said.

She turned her head, and smiled, though only her side-profile was visible.

John was startled to see her, his dream woman for as long as he could remember, without make-up on.

Even still, she had a shocking beauty to her.

She turned back around and continued with her busy-work.

“She was cooking me breakfast,” Liam said. “That’s the only reason why she was distracted enough. For…” he stopped for a moment. The camera on-screen began to move erratically. “For this.”

Liam must have been kneeling down, because the phone seemed to fall to the elevation of the floor itself. Its lens was aimed upward. Autumn Jones, from heel to hair, was visible in the shot. Her skirt was long and flowing, it covering the heels of her feet, it all hinting at a far greater shape beneath.

Then the shot began to slide forward.

John’s face fell.

It dipped beneath the curtain of her dress’s bottom and into blackness.

And then it began to adjust to the low light.

When John saw it, his jaw fell open.

Looking down into his face, as he lay there on a recliner, jacking off inside her living room, was Autumn’s Jones’ perfect naked ass, its cheeks heavy in weight and immense in surface area. On the other side, separated visually by her thick thighs, which thickened more the further they went up, was the pubic hairs of her vagina, which stared down, equally unguarded and bare, in a shade of orange-red which would have been very familiar to her every fan, it being the same as the shade on her universally recognizable head.

“Now…” Liam said in the current moment. “… you can cum.”

It didn’t take John long. Within seconds , he lay there, nutting onto himself and on the very couch he rested on, in front of his gawking friend.

Liam’s mouth was neutral, but his eyes burned with focus, fascinated at the cum being produced for his very own mother, seeming to be thrilled he could finally see it.

Autumn Jones’ cheeks jiggled as her thigh moved in a gargantuan sway. The phone pulled back slightly to avoid her adjusting feet, and John watched the aftershock of the jiggle sway the entire of her right cheek, leading to it wandering off, finding its limit away from the mean, and then falling back into place, knocking the left cheek back into a lesser amount of motion.

It was the perfect sight to witness mid-orgasm, and because of it, and because of its historical implications, John’s orgasms reached heights he couldn’t reach even with the body of his own mother, which he knew every inch of physically.

“You’re the first to see it,” Liam said, his voice riding down the latter half of John’s ecstasy, settling down with it in a comfortable embrace. “I’d love to show it to the others, just to see them enjoy it, you know? But I don’t trust them. Dylan especially. He’s way too comfortable for chaos. He’d upload this just to break the internet.”

John’s jerking slowed down, and that familiar glow, this time many times stronger than before, began to come to him.

“And I can’t say I don’t relate to his impulse.”

John looked at him.

Liam was looking at the screen, his eyes focused on his mom’s shaded ass the way a wolf’s leader would gaze upon its prey. “What good is fame…” he started somberly. “When it means you can’t share what needs to be shared?”

John’s cock twitched. A string of cum stretched itself between his stomach and the tip of his cock.

Autumn shifted onto other foot. The camera was pulled backward, out into the light, and was lifted up in the air.

“This is going to be the best breakfast you’re ever going to have Liam, you’ll see.”

And what slid back into frame was her gorgeous and iconic smile, hair and eyes, all shot from just below.

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

John moved past the wall of goods.

This is America, he thought. For every meal there’s a million names and mascots to represent them.

He looked at Tony the Tiger, who smiled back at him with a spoonful of Frosted Flakes in his hand.

A pale feminine hand reached out and grabbed the box. Its contents jostled within.

Amy placed the box into her cart with everything else.

John looked at the city of food boxes. Then he caught something in his eyeline. He looked up, seeing two men, one young and one older, likely father and son or possibly brothers, both gawking at his mom. Their eyes traced up and down her curves.

John looked back, seeing her giant chest hanging over the ridge of her cart, her right tit resting on a box full of ramen packets, likely crushing the square of ramen within at its fringes.

His dick throbbed, still buzzing with the glow of yesterday.

Amy turned around, she looked at the shelf. John looked down at her white leggings, her impossibly large ass was hugged by them intimately. The two men seemed to notice. Amy’s brow was furrowed as she looked at more cereal.

John looked down at the incomprehensible wall of names and faces, bowls full of sugar and artificial colors, and little prizes in order to snare the attention and desires of children.

She wants to stuff me full of this garbage, he began to resent internally. But she won’t let me own a single bra as a keepsake. Or use the internet like every kid over the age of 13.

The night before, after coming home from Liam’s, she had fell upon him like a fire, demanding to know where he had been. The reaction was so disproportionate that he had thought she had found out about the footage.

“You’re staying home tonight!”

She demanded as much with her voluptuous body all but wrapped tightly into a racy red dress.

He heard a car beeping outside. He knew it was Dylan’s mom Gianna waiting for her friend.

“Understood?”

John didn’t answer, but he spoke with the shame on his face.

Amy moved past him as if he were an obstruction.

John watched his mom’s big ass wobble in that dress as she left the house, slamming the door behind her as if she knew he was looking. She didn’t, she was just irrationally angry. She barely managed to push out a goodbye before shutting the door, and when it came, it came through gritted teeth.

John sat at his computer for most of the night, trying as many ways as he could to puncture the firewall. By the time something seemed to work, hours had past, and he heard the front door open up and then slam shut. He looked at the time in the bottom right of his screen. It was just past two o’ clock.

He leaned out into the hallway to see his mom standing and at the window, her round ass exciting to behold, looking out between the blinds. He could tell by the way she stood, and the way she cringed in her shoulders watching a drunk Gianna peel off into the night, that she was barely buzzed.

John thought about her body underneath that dress. It had been so long since the last time he had been able to feel it nude against his own nakedness. The last time his tongue, lips, and gyrating hips felt and tasted the comfort of her skin with full reign was so long ago that it all felt like some half-remembered dream.

Gianna’s car grew distant. Amy let go of the blinds, causing them to snap shut. By the time she turned around, her son’s door was closed.

John sat within on the edge of his bed. He thought about Gianna, her exotic body, knowing it well on video, and he knew what Dylan would look like tonight, taking advantage of its near-unconscious state. John had forgotten that he cracked the firewall, only sitting there, stewing in resentment, hearing his mom move up and down the living room, clicking off lamps, setting down her purse and phone, freely and unimpeded. He thought about the chains she had fastened to him, almost feeling them as physical entities, and he imagined what grandpa would feel seeing the way she was dressed for the night, and the company she kept. Seeing her body be made into an object. A commodity for advertisement, a hint for the enjoyment that could possibly be extracted from it, or more likely, a bluff.

What have I done that was so harmful? John asked himself.

John knew what the answer was. Nothing. It was his mom who was the problem.

The two men stood there in the aisle, one whispering to the other. “Tony’s,” was the only intelligible word John could make out.

The man who said it had his phone held out before him, as if texting someone, though his eyes were on John’s mom. Then he looked down at the face of the phone.

The other man looked over, seeing John staring at them. He slapped his friend on his arm with the back of his hand. His friend promptly looked up, saw the Chinese boy staring at him, clicked off his phone and pocketed it.

Amy spun around just in time with a box of cereal in her hands, setting it down in the cart, her tits reshaping as they hung downward.

A thought flashed through John’s mind. It was his mom turning a second earlier, or the two men noticing John a second too late, and her spinning to catch the camera, noting its odd angle within moments and it capturing the look on her face as she did.

Her expression in his mind wasn’t too different than that of Autumn Jones in the paparazzi photo.

“Tony’s” is what the man said, but John scanned over the sound of mumblings from memory, and what was once incomprehensible found further form with “big tits.”

That’s when it occurred to him.

His mom had a growing fanbase, building, festering, within the quaint streets and alleys of this town.

It was only a matter of time, John thought. A matter of time before the curves of his mom’s body, reminiscent of planets in their spherical shape, would drag in satellites with their immense gravity.

As Amy wheeled the cart out of the cereal aisle, a few more men watched her from the produce section, gawking at the way her body jiggled past like a dream conjured from the ghost of their arousal, an archetype of femininity rather than a product of it.

John looked out at them as he followed his mom, their eyes stuck to her and her body as if life were a movie and she was its main character.

John saw one of the clerks behind the meat counter slap his friend on his arm and point over in his mom’s direction. He did it in a way which said “look who it is” wordlessly.

John looked down at his mom’s gigantic ass. The white leggings hugging it, leaving shade and contour which destroyed all need for imagination as to her ass’s prodigious shape.

John looked back to see a man standing over the frozen turkeys playing with his phone. He looked barely innocuous for a second, until the flash on his camera snapped, and his mouth fell open in shock, his cheeks filling with redness.

Amy, as if feeling something strange, turned around to see a bunch of men standing around, going about their business. John watched as their gazes lifted up to admire her again when she turned around and went on her way.

John turned away, following his mom, having no reason to find flimsy pretext to stand behind her. She was his mom after all, and she had asked him to come to help with groceries. Following her was what was expected of him.

He then felt a weight in his hand.

He looked down to see his phone there. Its screen black.

He looked up to see his mom stop, the fat of her ass still in motion for almost a full second longer when she did.

He lifted his phone and looked down at it.

He grinned.

An app, he remembered Liam saying.

He didn’t have that app, nor did he have the time to research or download it. Instead he lowered the lighting of his phone until he could barely see its screen, and then brought up his camera. He could only tell he made it by the sight of motion on the screen, though he couldn’t tell what he was capturing. Nor could he tell if he was shooting with the forward-facing lens and not the one made for selfies. He just had to proceed with faith.

He held the phone at his side.

His mom walked on ahead, her body unbelievable, better than any porn he had ever known, even while clothed.

He slowly tilted his phone, feeling his wrist twist awkwardly, until it felt like she would be in frame. And then he did exactly what his mom expected him to do: he followed her.

He neared up on her, feeling his thrill rise as her giant ass got closer to him. When she stopped, he stopped with her, but his phone came within inches of those giant cheeks. He let out a groan which was so loud internally that he feared she had heard it. But she hadn’t. She only looked at the shelf.

A sudden terror took him over, as if he was being watched by the god of the local church, the one that everyone here insisted could see you, no matter where you were. But he managed to get a tamper down over the head of that fear, and he began to walk behind his mother, aiming the phone at her giant ass as they both moved, finding the end of his semi-circle, subtly switching the phone to his other hand, and doing the same going back in the other direction.

The phone must have been within a quarter of a foot from her, and his only fear after a while was that he had been filming with the wrong lens. He looked around, seeing other men admiring her, feeling secure at noticing none of them noticed him or his awkwardly carried phone. He was so close to her in ways they could never be, and he began to feel his chest swell with a certain pride and sensation of power at the thought of it.

He looked back at his mother’s face. She squinted and leaned forward as she looked at a box of granola bars. His recent frustrations with her were only magnified by the shape and disposition of her face, but that frustration now was so easily converted into a devilish glee. Her ass sat in a world below her infuriating face, its position tenuous, its situation defenseless.

“With chocolate chips,” she said suddenly. She looked up into John’s startled face.

“Huh?” he said. He twisted the lens of the camera away from her instinctually.

“Chocolate chips,” she said again. “Not plain. With chocolate chips.”

It took John a second to think, but within that second, he noticed something which caught his attention.

It was there, on the bottom shelf, the granola bars she was referencing. Plain, with no chocolate chips to be seen.

John looked back at his mom.

“Which one?” she said, jerking the box of the ones with chocolate chips in her hand.

John could see the shape of his mom’s ass in his peripheral. A smile formed at the fringe of his mouth. “No,” he said in Mandarin. And then in English: “I want to try the plain version.”

His mom sighed, possibly irritated by her son’s sudden spontaneity. She put the box back on the shelf, and then, after looking over the shelf for the plain version, spotting them beneath her, and then clicking her tongue in annoyance, she began to bend down.

John reorientated his camera.

As she bent down, her giant ass inches from the fisheye lens of it, John looked down the aisle to see the two men who had spotted her before. They were both staring at her with eyes of dreamers. They both seemed to wish they could admire Amy’s bending over backside up close.

John held the camera right up against the giant reforming ass without even looking at it.

He smiled to himself.

His mom popped back up, and she turned and tossed the box into the cart. She softly pushed John aside. “Let’s go,” she said. “Before you get any other crazy ideas.”

John grinned as he followed her from behind. You don’t even know the half of it, mom.

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

John sat at his computer, his phone plugged into the USB port. He sat there with his hand against his head. “It was aimed the right way,” he repeated to himself.

His mom’s giant ass danced along the screen in a majestic ballet whose plot was expressed succinctly through its shape and size.

John felt his balls with his finger tips, then he leaned back as he let his fingers slide upward toward his shaft.

His mom moved ahead, and when she looked back at him, he was shocked to see that her expression in the video, which didn’t lie, was exactly how he remembered it.

Anger was the first thing which flared up in his mind as he saw those narrowed eyes, only made all the more narrow through her subtle aggravation. His brow furrowed.

A thought occurred to him and he leaned forward and over his keyboard.

The thought of Autumn Jones’ ass came to his mind, the way the camera pulled out from beneath her skirt, and she spun around like a dream and her very famous face came into view.

“What’s the use of fame,” he heard Liam saying in his memory. “If it means you can’t share the things you’d like to?”

John dragged away the paused image of his mom’s face looking back at him, her ass looking back at him just the same, over to the side. He opened up a window on firefox.

Then he opened his favorite porn site, the one he had missed so dearly.

“Upload”

He clicked it.

Before even uploading the video, he wrote under the title tab: “My Big-Assed Chinese Mom”

Under the tags, he wrote “creep,” “voyeur,” “ass,” “Asian,” “Milf,” and “non-consent,” each of them giving him his own new and distinct thrill at coming up with it.

He sat in front of his screen staring at the upload form, seeing the video finally load and become ready for conversion.

He sat there, unsure what to do.

Then he heard a series of laughs, a whole studio full, from beyond his bedroom door. John heard his mom laughing with those laughs, and he imagined her there, her tits shaking with her as she adjusted on the couch, her right foot brought up underneath her left thigh.

Autumn Jones’ voice was audible. John’s mom laughed again, before the studio audience even could.

John thought about that bra. Its giant cavernous cups, and Autumn Jones’ face with it. He didn’t even know that those cups had been preserved, that his own mother’s breasts were sitting within them at this very moment. Even still, something bubbled up within him.

He could see his own reflection in his computer monitor screen.

He was grimacing. The sight of it was ugly, but its inception was pure.

He focused back on the screen. The two buttons below became apparent to him again: “Confirm,” and “Cancel.”

His grimace was slowly replaced by a smile.

He hit “confirm”

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

John felt his anxiety rise as he was pushed by multiple bodies from behind.

“Off my foot!” a woman yelled.

John looked over to see the last of them trying to squeeze within before the bus doors closed.

His mom’s shoulder pressed firmly against his own.

John gripped his phone tightly, fearing he might drop it.

Its face was black, but its battery was burning hot as it silently recorded everything which it caught in its lens’s eye.

Amy’s ass jostled there in her leggings as the bus started back into motion, just inches now from the lens.

John’s mouth was dry from nervousness and excitement, the two going hand in hand.

It was a lucky accident that the bus had found itself so full, and had driven him, without an excuse necessary, closer to the tensing body of his own mother.

Her work apron and pants were back at Uncle Tony’s restaurant. It had been a miracle that she had decided to change this time. She hadn’t been doing it as of late. But Uncle Tony, for some unspoken reason, had convinced her recently that it would be a good idea.

John’s phone pressed into the side of his mom’s ass, only for a moment, and a bead of sweat began to fall from his hairline, due to a mix of a guilt and of an anticipation of what that would look like on film.

As the bus turned, Amy’s tits swayed, and men who stood around her, circling her on all sides, took subtle or not-so-subtle peeks over at them. Her cleavage was opened and exposed. Her hand held onto the stabilizing handle, and it managed to stabilize all of her except for that which was furthest from her core and the least rigid in constitution: the giant weight of her soft breasts and the round globes of her big butt cheeks.

John wished he could capture all of her at once, but the crowded nature of the ride meant he had no choice but to stand close. Even still, he wondered at exactly what her ass was going to look like in the footage, given how sheer the seat of her yoga pants seemed to be getting. He wondered at the possibility of seeing cheek through it, and of being able to share that cheek with the thousands of men who stumbled on his first video.

The bus turned again, and his mom held on unglamorously, seemingly unaware of what an online star she had become. She seemed to only barely understand how much of a star she was becoming on this very bus, with sets of eyes from a considerable distance seeming to notice her even through all the chaos, her gigantic pale cleavage like a vision among the trash of humanity.

The driver took another turn, and as Amy’s breasts swayed, gathering even more eyes, much more brazenly than the time before and time before that, there was a sudden look of shock in her expression and then the sound of something hitting the bus’s floor.

She began to scramble, and those around her, having focused on her for so long, sensed her distress immediately. Most backed up to give her room to find what she dropped, but other closed in more, hoping she would rub against them as she kneeled or bent-down toward the ground.

John just stood stationary, knowing what was coming next.

Funnily enough though, he didn’t know the degree.

He wasn’t even looking at her when he heard it.

*ttteeaaarrr*

He didn’t even know what the sound was for a second.

And then he saw them, among the scattered and shocked crowd all around him, in his peripheral.

They were creamy and white and big, and separated by a line of solid and familiar red.

John looked down, and below his mother’s blushing lower back, he saw them, adorned with a special little friend.

It was the innermost parts of his mom’s butt-cheeks, now bare within a recently torn hole in her pants, with Autumn Jones’ scene-stealing red panty-thong sandwiched between them. John’s phone lens stood just inches away.

Amy’s hands, both of them (her right hand letting go of its leverage), grabbed at the hole, trying to pull it shut, only helping to tear it larger in her panic.

Men who stood close to her backed up to get a clearer look, and those who stood further craned their necks, or stood on their tippy-toes to do the same. The necks were in full articulation trying to stabilize heads to see her nudity, as if they were all appendages of one complex beast.

As the bus turned again, Amy’s hands, which had now began to dedicate themselves to simply covering her expanding point of humiliation, grabbed onto the edges of the hole, her lizard brain mistaking them as a place for stability. The whole bus could hear the further tearing noise.

John looked down at it as it tore itself so wide that the entirety of her ass was peaking out of what little was left of her leggings.

He could hear his mom pant in horror.

His phone, again, was only inches away.

She seemed to want to keep her hands there, but as she fell from the inertia of the turn, away from John and toward a wall of men, her hand shot upward and grabbed the stabilizing handle.

Her tits swung about, rubbing against the chests and shoulders of various astonished men.

She found her footing, but when she did, she was surprised to feel her personal space evaporating, as bodies seemed to subtly move closer to her. John could see it from outside, and note it as happening objectively. Thighs and pelvis’s seemed to float toward her, rub against her, and not pull themselves back at the contact.

Men looked down at her, as if she were nothing more than a snack.

Her face, blushing itself into various shades, seemed incapable of looking any of her accusers in their eyes.

Then John saw it, the first hand, glide itself slowly, its owner ambiguous, closer toward his mom’s ass.

John felt the need to step in, felt the need to save her.

And that’s when he remembered his mom’s face as she stood there in her tight-fitting red dress that one night, dooming him to an evening without internet access, and leaving the house dressed like an American whore.

John did nothing. He only made sure his phone was stable to capture what was coming next.

The hand reached the ass, and when it found it, it squeezed.

John saw his mom’s white ass reshaped by the pressure of that American hand.

His phone lens saw it too.

Once that seal was broken, more masculine hands poured through its broken gap like liquid, and John saw that famous thong, the one which belonged to America’s sweetheart, disappear and reappear within the flurry of hands, the activity and single-mindedness of which looked like something out of Greek mythology.

His mom pouted and whined and thrusted about, trying to escape it, doing so for tiny moments at a time, at least reducing the volume of it, before the empathy for her faded and was replaced by the arousal of possibility.

When her focus (always with just a single hand) went down to protect her reddening backside, she felt hand accost her from the front, squeezing her tits, one or two of them trying to pull her tits out from their cover, and almost succeeding.

At refocusing the attention of her left hand toward protecting her chest, she then felt an assault come up in between her legs. She abandoned her breasts to protect her most private place, even as she felt fingers dance across her ass, squeezing it into insane shapes, but as she did, she felt a solid tug on her shirt. Her hand shot back up to protect the private image of what her breasts looked like nude, and then at feeling more pressure in between her legs, her right hand let go of the handle and thrust downward.

The bus turned again. She shrieked and fell into the crowd deeper.

John saw a hand winding back, and then it snapped forward, aimed perfectly between all the other bodies, and landing exactly on its target, the right cheek of the stranded Chinese woman’s ass.

John had seen it jiggle and he knew his camera had as well.

One of them men had Amy around her hips and he had pulled her, doing so in a way which almost seemed like his goal was to stabilize her, but instead pressing her ass firmly against his crotch. He took a few humps before she got away.

The bus stopped, and when it did, the doors swinging open seemed to act like a cutting-in of clarity within the minds and intentions of all the men who surrounded Amy, including John.

A hand reached out and grabbed her, and she shrieked again, until she noticed (and John noticed at the same time) that it was a feminine hand which did it.

The feminine body, hard to make out among the crowd, walked off the bus, taking Amy softly with her.

John, at realizing his mom was leaving, followed.

A few of the men stepped off the bus with them, including the one who had rubbed directly against her. His hands were in his pockets as he watched the two women, and the one Chinese boy, walking away. Amy’s voluptuous ass was opened and exposed for him to admire from afar.

At the same time, John’s phone admired it and recorded it from close-up.

Amy, still in a daze, looked at the lady who held her hand.

An aged but beautiful Hispanic face looked back at hers.

It was Maria, Sofia’s mother.

“Child…” she said.

Amy’s face burned red.

The man watching her from the bus stop, the one who had gotten the most out of her as anyone, stared at her ass, watching her cheeks turn a beat red, falling under the weight of her humiliation, unwittingly adding to it.

As many sets of eyes watched her, including the empathetic eyes of Sofia’s mother, another eye, one which sat alone, watched her just as well. John’s camera, cold and lifeless, stood in the midday sun, not only watching but remembering the events of the day and the sweet treat torn open for the public, its first and only time.

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

3 million views.

John could hardly believe it.

Not that the video didn’t deserve that sort of attention, just that he could live to see his mom get that much of it.

He looked at the footage of her perfect ass, open to the sun as she looked down at the ground in shame. A kind Hispanic woman rubbing her back for comfort.

The comments shared in celebrating John’s joy, enjoying kicking this pretty flower of a woman while she was down. “I couldn’t hear what she was saying on the bus,” one comment said. “It sounded something like ‘No touch, not for sale.’” “I loved watching that rice-fed ass getting groped,” another said. “She’s crying like her rice patty got napalmed,” chimed in another. “They should have been harder with her,” said the last one John read.

He stared at it for a bit.

His mouse cursor went over it. He clicked the thumbs up button.

After Sofia’s mom had left, John followed his mom, the two of them running down the street, trying to get home as quickly as possible, her ass only demanding more attention as it went. And John, being the conscientious student that he was, kept filming all the while. But he regretted that he couldn’t use that footage, knowing that it exposed way too much of his town, ruining his anonymity.

“I can’t post this,” he remembered Liam saying about his own footage. “They’d know who it was.”

John now knew what that felt like.

His mom had sulked around the house in days since, afraid to look her own son in the eyes. John cherished every inch of red blemish on her otherwise pale cheeks, using them to imagine the blushing flesh of her ass on that day.

John felt a weird and, up until then, unknown amount of power within the house. When his next test came back with an A, one step up from A- but not the A+ his mother had previously been demanding, he only grinned to himself, sitting back cozily in his chair, not a care in the world. He knew she couldn’t bring it up to him, at least not for a while.

And as embarrassed and defeated as she was, John knew that he had still yet to get his full revenge. That would come on the next day, no matter how far into the future it was, that his mom would be foolish enough to come home drunk.

Because then, when she was finally in a state beyond being able to defend herself, John was going to truly take out his anger on her the way it felt best.

And when he would, it wouldn’t just be captured on film for his own personal collection. No, no, no, because from now on, John’s mom Amy was an international star.