Description: Salma Hayek’s teenage son dreams of fucking his strict Catholic mother. He accidentally awakens a demon living beneath their Bel Air mansion.

“I think there is not a devil left in hell; they have all gone into you!”—Martin Luther King, 1525, Against the Robbing and Murdering Hordes of Peasants (from Vol. 46 of Luther’s Works)

tags: salma hayek, incest, mother-son, large breasts, taboo, guilt, shame, oral, religion

* * *

There is no woman alive so pure yet so drenched in filth as Salma Valgarma Hayek Jiménez.

Her face has the tragic, haunted quality of Falconetti’s Joan of Arc. Her eyes descant fire like Trevisani’s Virgin Mary. Her amber-burnished skin belongs on stained glass.

But her body…

It’s obscene. Lewd, fleshy, and overripe. Under her prayerfully holy face is a voluptuous, sin-drenched wonderland where the male mind wanders measurements—40–24–42—gets lost in curves, sinks, then drowns. She is a temple to sybaritic excess. A doorway to disgusting places within yourself. She fills the observer with lust and heat and finally something like sorrow, because her flesh is a mirror, and in it you see an animal. There’s distress in the beauty of Salma Hayek. Agony.

She is a glimpse of heaven, and knowledge that we will not go there when we die…

* * *

Alejandro Hayek stared at his mother through the door.

His penis surged and squirmed, slithering wetly in his fist.

Every morning was the same morning—this morning. Face pressed to the bedroom door. A pool of hot breath panted against the mahogany, coiling back into his face. Eye against the inch-wide gap, feasting hungrily on his mother as she dressed.

He hated himself for doing this. Hated. Hated. Hated.

She sat on the edge of the bed, naked and oblivious. Brushing her hair, with her flesh still steaming from the shower.

Her back was turned. Alejandro’s throat constricted as he contemplated the depth of her ass—two massive slabs of muscle and meat, with the heft of moss-overgrown boulders, rifted by shadow. He thought he could shove his entire arm down into that shadow and still not touch the bottom of her enormous ass.

But it was her tits he truly wanted to see—huge pendulous masses of flesh, barely hinted at as they wobbled out from behind her back…two big bulging sacks that had once fed him. They kept swinging in and out of view—teasing him, driving him crazy.

His hand whispered like liquid breath as it flew across his prick, pumping out wet strokes.

Turn around, Mom… He drew in breath and held it until it became a lungful of poison. Turn around.

Let. Me. See. Your. Breasts.

It was a cool day in Bel Air, but the mansion seemed to drip with heat. Sweat carved knife tracks down his back. He squinted through the narrow crack until she became strangely blurry in his vision—a mommy-mirage.

As though she wasn’t there, and maybe didn’t even exist.

It might be better if Mom didn’t exist, even though that meant he didn’t exist, either.

At least then he’d wouldn’t have this…sickness in his head.

Alejandro wished he’d never discovered the crack in her bedroom door. The crack that wept light into the darkness of the hall. The crack that allowed you to see without being seen.

The sheer littleness of it…he was consumed by incestuous fantasies because of an inch of air between a door and a jamb. Because some pendejo carpenter hadn’t hung a door correctly. He’d been walking down the hallway one morning and had noticed light fissuring from the gap. Widening in a triangle over the flooring, like a pointing arrow. Come. Stand. Look.

An obedient Catholic boy, he’d followed the arrow’s order. He’d stood before the light of her bedroom…and stared into it.

…And then hadn’t been able to stop.

Alejandro Hayek was a boy who loved his mother in the worst way possible.

* * *

Mom’s upper body swayed as she brushed her long hair, singing Ava Maria. Her thick Norteño accent made vowels and consonants twist prettily like roses on a vine.

Ave Maria, gratia plena, Maria, gratia plena, Maria, gratia plena, Ave, Ave, Dominus

Alejandro drooled, pounding his cock. He loved the ripples surging through her thick and luscious body.

She pulled a handful of hair straight, then ride the brush straight down it. shhhhaaaakkk! Sheets of muscles fluxed like harpstrings across her back. He loved her hair, which was so dense that she made a full-body workout out of taming it.

She tugged a knot from her hair. The jerk caused a breast the size of a speedbag to spill sideways into view behind her back. Fuck! Was that a nipple? Alejandro’s fist tightened around his prick, squeezing out a glistening rope of pre-ejaculate.

His days had a wearying routine.

He’d hear the thunk of her shower shutting off, tiptoe to her bedroom door, and stand there sweating: breath shallow; heart slamming; throat dry; muscles coiled; nerves razor-edged; cock tenting out his pants. He’d focus on the empty bed, trying to will her onto the tousled white sheets.

Sometimes Mom spent thirty seconds towelling herself. Sometimes a couple minutes. But then she’d emerge from the bathroom, and the Salma Show would begin.

It was her most unsung and overlooked role. It would never win her an Oscar or an Emmy. It was so obscure, in fact, that Mom herself did not know she starred in it.

The Salma Show aired each morning for an audience of just one…but that audience never missed an episode.

Ale’s eyes would bug out as delicate white feet strutted naked and moist from the shower. She’d sit on the bed, a towel folded in a way that—depending on his mood—suggested angelic wings or a funeral shroud. His heart would beat faster as she began brushing. It was just a matter of time until her white bathtowel slid down, unraveled by the movement of her slender pale arms. First, her upper back would be exposed, followed soon by the rest of her.

Even if her back wasn’t turned to the door, Mom could not see out into the hall. So long as the hallway lights stayed dimmed and he stayed quiet, he would not be detected. Once Mom started brushing her hair—singing an odd mix of Catholic hymns, Mariachi standards, and Ricky Martin—even being quiet was optional.

shhhhaakkk shhhhaaaakk The brushstrokes scurried shivers over his skin. It sounded like a knife being sharpened. He had gotten used to timing his strokes with hers, using her sound to mask his.

She swayed on the bed—sways that were deeply sensual in no small part for being natural, unchoreographed. This was so much better than masturbating to photos where she was being hot on purpose, posed and primped for photographer, editor, and audience. Ale had watched none of Mom’s movies. He didn’t like it when she put herself on a plate for public consumption, became whore for all the world.

Ale liked having Mom all to himself.

She laid the brush by her side. He stopped breathing entirely. Yes. Good. Now turn around…

She tossed her head back, slinging hair in a glorious jet flash that splashed and flowed down her shoulders. Sleek tresses ran in rivers, following her back’s curves, settling above the obscene massiveness of her ass.

Alejandro began masturbating in earnest. Drooling, panting, almost tearing his cock off with his fist. Stroking faster and faster, racing himself, letting pleasure crescendo to the edge of an orgasm, then the edge of the edge. He stifled a gasp. A spasm shot through his scrotum. Cum boiled, rising like lava…

…he stopped stroking. He didn’t want to ejaculate before he saw her breasts.

Turn. The fuck. Around.

The moment stretched out. Mom just sat, big-assed and calm, doing nothing. Turn around! His mind gibbered and his cock throbbed, two heads with one thought. Don’t just sit there! Turn around! Turn around!

He did not deserve to have his wish fulfilled.

Salma sighed, uncrossed her thighs, and twisted her luscious body around.

He gasped as they swung to face the door—his mother’s mammoth breasts, draped like shopping bags filled with cream upon her sloping belly. They trembled obscenely, lying in enormous pilings that looked unbelievably huge, heavy and full. Her nipples resembled mountaineers clinging precariously to Matterhorn-esque surfaces.

Then Mom grunted, and gripped her huge bulbous tits beneath one arm. They bulged like watermelons between her forearm and chest. With her free hand, she dragged a swipe of Sol de Janeiro underarm deodorant across musky-looking underboob skin, then released her titanic udders. They fell with heavy slaps. PLAP! CLAP!

Alejandro immediately orgasmed. He hadn’t touched his cock in thirty seconds but his load began firing out anyway.

His eyes bulged, his insides writhed, his guts became slippery with a boiling, rising heat. Pleasure exploded like a black flower blooming from his crotch. His body twisted in knots upon itself. His hips began pumping a slick rhythm, churning a slippery path through his fist as sperm looped down his epididymis duct.

His cock pulsed as thick cum flooded down its length. His dickhole yawned, preparing to vomit it against the door.

But nothing came.

Ale grunted. Veins writhed in his neck. His dick was blocked by something—his urethra felt like a drain clogged with grease. His peristaltic muscles spasming frantically, pushing against the blockage. Pressure built until he thought cum would come hosing out of his ears, and then—

SPLAT!

A wad of thick congealed sperm blew out of his cock like phlegm from a sneeze. It hit the door with the loudest noise Alejandro had ever heard his cum make.

Salma heard the sound. Her eye flicked toward the door—alert, fearful.

Fuck. Ale wanted to die. She heard, you idiot, and now she’s gonna-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-FUCK!

Gasping, hips jerking, he blew powerful ropes of thick yellow gunk across her bedroom door. His orgasm kicked against the inside of his skull like a horse. None of the spurts were as loud as the first blast, but they were many and they were copious. Waves of pleasure coruscated through him, rattling his teeth as he climaxed. He couldn’t run, couldn’t escape. He just had to get it all out of him.

Between spasms and spurts, he watched Mom sweep arms in a cross over her large bare breasts, staring suspiciously, her thoughts visible on her face. Did I imagine a sound against the door? Or imagine I imagined? Ale suppressed moans. He watched his dickhole hose out nearly a dozen streams of nasty, diseased-looking sperm over the burnished mahogany, with Salma just staring the whole time.

Finally, she shrugged, took her eyes from the door, and continued dressing.

…And Ale breathed for the first time in over a minute.

His cock dribbled, growing soft. It slid free of his hand with a filthy slurp, dangling at the floor.

Hurry. Clean up. Mom was dressing in earnest now. Sheathing her beautiful flesh in clothes, like a blade in its scabbard. She slipped on silk panties, then began wrestling her breasts into the cups of a bra.

Ale hurriedly mopped up his cum with a handful of tissues. The sheer amount of rank, steaming sperm he’d blown over her door was disturbing. It oozed down in thick, clinging cords of yellow-tinged pollution.

He imagined his mother’s gigantic tits getting hosed down by that load. His orgasm-buzzing prick twitched.

Salma spent about thirty to forty minutes on her toilette. He could beat off twice if she was slow or he was quick. But he preferred to be slow—extending pleasure, delaying guilt when his load rushed out and shame flooded in.

She deserves a better son.

Ale was disgusted by himself. Viscerally repulsed by his body—aware of its gurgles, its secretions, its filth. He’d just showered but his crotch and armpits already seemed to stink, overactive teenage hormones swilling through every pore. His dripping cock felt livid and obscene as it went back into his pants, like an excision of human bowel.

Mom always made him feel this way, even when he wasn’t spying on her—she had an aggressive, combative sort of purity that made him feel deeply dirty, like a pig rooting in mud. Sometimes Mom consciously meant to make him feel small. Most of the time she simply did it.

Not that jerking over her bedroom door was helping his case.

Heart racing, Alejandro padded down the hall, the wad of soiled tissues dripping in his hand. The family mansion was large and spacious. High ceilings, and corners that filled with pools of darkness. When dad had filed divorce papers and moved out, it had seemed too big. But Alejandro now appreciated its cavernous quality. Lots of space for shame. For secrets.

He flushed the tissues, just as Mom’s pumps rang on the hallway tiles.

“Ale!” her voice sang out. “Time for church!”

* * *

They drove to Saint Paul the Apostle Parish through heavy LA traffic.

Salma’s white-gloved hands rested on the Acura ZDX’s wheel, holding it like the reins of a horse. Her back was regal and erect. Presidential. Shocking allegations of nut-brown skin peeked between the gloves and sleeves. Sunglasses reflected the road ahead. She did not see her son ogling her from the backseat.

She wore a black and gold bustier that hugged her figure with the tightness of eager, gripping hands. The bustier swelled at her chest, pulled in at her waist, then exploded out again to accommodate the sheer thickness of her big meaty ass. Legs curved down, slit modestly at the side the ankle. A platform pump tapped a finger-light rhythm on the gas pedal.

Ale squirmed in the backseat, eyes jabbing from point to point on Mom’s body. He was obsessed with her. Her scent filled the car and his nose—her bodywash, and the dab of Yves Saint Laurent at her throat. He could smell something else. Maybe it was the deodorant she’d used on the undersides of her tits.

Another erection rose from his crotch. They sprouted like weeds around his Mom—he jerked out one, and another grew in its place.

The Acura hit a pothole. Salma’s face did not move, but her monster tits bobbled with the jolt. Excellent suspension. The Acura’s was pretty good too.

“After church, I will need your muscles, Ale,” Salma said. “I have twelve Viburnum Emerald Lustres that I need to plant beside the driveway. You can dig the holes.”

Ale groaned. There went his afternoon. “Weren’t we hiring a groundskeeper for things like that?”

“I haff tried,” Salma said, curling her lip.. “The agency has not returned my calls. Just as none of the maids are returning our calls. Nobody likes to work at our mansion, as I’ve told you. And anyway, it is good to do yard work yourself.”

His mother settled into familiar hectoring tones.

“You spend too much time at home, Ale. Too much time playing those Satanic com-pooh-ter games. Too much time on Teek-Tock…”

Her mouth continued moving long after Alejandro had stopped listening. This was all old and familiar to him. You need more church, more catechisms, more incense smoke, more Christ. Blah blah blah.

As she lectured, Alejandro’s eyes roved hungrily down to her obscenely fleshed body. Her tits are so big. Even through her demure bustier, he could see were the upper slopes pooled out of the tops of her bra cups, wobbling like jelly.

They turned a corner, and emerged into sunlight. Brilliance flooded through the Acura ZDX’s sunroof over Mom’s body, making her bustier transparent. He glimpsed her chest’s huge, audacious sweeps, and his erection raged inside his Sunday dress pants. He hoped a wet spot wouldn’t show as he sat beside her. Mom liked to stay fifteen minutes to chat to her friends. If he survived the service, he’d have time to jack off again in the church bathrooms.

I would do anything to touch her body… he thought, as she outlined his flaws and failings one by one. Anything at all.

Unrequited lust inspires less poetry than unrequited love, but it’s no less painful to endure.

One person burns alive. The other person doesn’t even get warm.

Salma was still talking. “…if I could have my time over again, I would have raised you very differently, Ale. I was too lenient. I should have made you stay an altar boy, like Josefina did with her son. That was where it all went wrong for you, I think…”

“Mom?” Ale decided to try something.

“Yes?”

“You look…nice today.”

“You are very kind.” She even didn’t turn around. “I am fond of this outfit. Carmelita picked it out for me.”

She spoke in the brisk businesslike tone she used on fans and journalists. Thank you. Next.

No. Not good enough. He wouldn’t be treated like some grinning asshole with an autograph. He was her son.

“I wasn’t talking about your dress.” Ale’s voice broke its leash, and became a snarl. Raw and lustful. “I meant…underneath…”

Salma’s smile lost width. “I’m sorry? What?”

Ale gulped, froze, then pushed ahead.

“You’re hot, Mom,” he whispered. “Sexy. I see why Dad married you.”

Salma flinched. Her lips released a shocked hiss. Her hands clenched on the wheel, jerking the Acura from its lane. The wheels scraped the white paint, then she straightened the car with a hard yank of the steering wheel, throwing Ale against the side wall.

For ten seconds, silence crushed the air from the car. Then…

“Ale!” she gasped. “What a thing to say!”

He lowered his eyes, immediately wishing he’d been born without a mouth. “I’m sorry.”

“I cannot believe my ears!” Her voice was thin and shocked, yet drove a knife through him. “I am your mother! What is wrong with you?”

Alejandro sighed. “I, um, meant it as a compliment.”

Angry, Mom slapped a gloved hand against the wheel. This time, he flinched.

“Lo dije con buena intención? No. No! You will never talk to me like that again, Ale! Understood? Never!”

He babbled apologies, but she wasn’t done.

In words knotted with rage, she told him things he hadn’t heard before—memories of her early life.

Salma Hayek had not always been a rich and famous A-lister. Once she’d been a teenage girl from Coatzacoalcos, Mexico, toiling at the coalface of Mexico’s telenovela trade and experiencing daily sexual harassment.

She told Ale about men grabbing her ass at the copy machine; grinding against her at afterparties; whispering in her ear about what she could gain with a yes or lose with a no. Every entertainment industry has a Harvey Weinstein. Not every entertainment industry has a Ronan Farrow. Alejandro withered as she spoke, feeling like the lowest slug in creation.

“I used to lie awake and hate being a woman,” she dabbed a kerchief against a flushed brow. “I prayed for the Blessed Virgin Mother to take away my breasts and my…bottom. Just take it all away, so horrible men would leave me alone.”

Ale was collapsing. Crumbling. His confidence had left him. He wished he’d been born without a mouth.

Salma’s jawline was set in an unyielding curve. “Things are better now. I left Mexico, and now I have a life of my own design. A life free of depraved men, where I am shown respect. Or so I thought until now, Ale…!”

A note of disgust knifed under her voice.

“…My own son has grown up to be one of those men. My son is now staring at me and saying vulgar things about my body. I cannot believe it, Ale. I cannot believe it!”

Alejandro sighed, sagging against the car seat. “I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean it.”

No reply. She just stared at the road ahead. The rooftop of Saint Paul’s was now in sight.

“Please forgive me,” he whined. “I’ll never do it again.”

Mom coldly flicked the turn signal and merged them onto Ohio Avenue, then onto the gravel carpark of the church. They had a private parking space, with a nameplate.

He did not try to talk to her again. No point. Salma Hayek would be offended by any comparison between herself and a peach, but not all of the parallels were sexual.

Like a peach, she bruised easily.

Like a peach, she then stayed bruised forever.

* * *

“Now the works of the flesh are manifest, which are fornication, uncleanness, immodesty…”

If Sunday Mass had been any frostier, Alejandro would have lost fingers and toes.

Atop the pulpit, rising beyond the sea of hats and heads, Deacon Calabrese roared and bellowed from within the folds of an immense black cassock. Ale had always found him terrifying. It was like someone had found the blackest thundercloud in the sky and taught it Leviticus.

He sat on the bench, eyes down, squirming uncomfortably. He worried a splinter loose from the pew and tortured himself with the point. Mom sat beside him, fingers laced on her lap. He kept shooting sideways glances at her, always seeing the same thing. Sharp features, lips pursed, eyes frowning, face bled of warmth and caring, just staring ahead at Deacon Calabrese’s shaven scalp as he preached hellfire and damnation. A ship’s figurehead had more movement, and more love.

Salma spoke once to him on the drive home after church.

“Maria is consecrating her baby this afternoon,” she said. “I am going to the ceremony, then to her casa afterward. I will be back by dinner.”

“Oh, wow! Maria had a baby?” Alejandro had no clue who Maria was. “That’s so cool! What’s the baby’s name? Is it a boy or a..”

She raised a blade-sharp hand. “I am sorry, Ale, but I do not feel like talking at the moment. Please just dig the holes if you are able.”

He cringed, and fell silent.

* * *

At home, Mom prepared for the consecration. Alejandro ran to his bedroom, took care of a personal problem, then changed clothes. He grabbed a shovel and marched outside, all smiles and pep. He was on a charm offensive—determined to get back into Mom’s good graces.

As her car pulled out of the driveway, he purposefully stood beside the driveway so she’d see him with a shovel. Look, Mom! Digging those holes, just like you asked! Aren’t I a good boy?

He waved goodbye to the retreating Acura—saw Mom lift a white-gloved hand two inches from the steering wheel, then drop it back down.

A start, at least. Hopefully they’d be back on speaking terms by dinner. Or next dinner. Or the dinner after that. Getting those holes dug would help his case.

The car vanished toward Beverly Glen Boulevard, and Alejandro set to work.

* * *

The shovel bit the earth; took a mouthful; spat it back.

Alejandro grunted and strained: planting the shovel, kicking it in with his boot, then heaving out moist wedges of dirt. Mom had marked the spots where she wanted the Viburnum Emerald Lustres. There seemed to be so many of them.

He wasn’t used to strenuous yard work. After thirty seconds, he was aware of his own breathing. After two minutes, he was panting. After five, he was drop-dead exhausted. Time for a break. He spiked his shovel into the ground, and leaned against it. That’s progress, right? I’ve dug… He turned and counted. …Three holes? Huh. Felt like more.

Then he gazed at the mansion where he and Salma lived after her divorce. It reared like a fairytale castle—double-storied, driving a blunt wedge up to the peerless Santa Monican skyline. It caught and winnowed light from its gables and shingles, dazzling him with radiance. He liked the contrast. Outer brightness. Inner darkness. Romanticism in the streets. Bauhaus in the sheets.

It had been built in the 1930s. He still remembered the real estate agent’s brochure. It was 6,811 square feet of living space on 1.5 acres of land, with two floors, four bedrooms, and three bathrooms. It had a swimming pool, a greenhouse, and a bike path.

What it did not have was help.

It was oddly hard to find housemaids willing vacuum and dust those 6,811 square feet; oddly hard to find groundskeepers willing to weed and edge the acre-and-a-half outside.

Two months ago, Mom had told him why.

* * *

“They think our house is haunted,” she’d said at dinner.

Salma was drunk—or her version of it. She’d uncork a bottle of something, fill a glass two-thirds full, then top it up with distilled water from the fridge. Mom could make a single bottle of Chateau Beychevelle last several months.

“Haunted?” Alejandro liked Drunk Mom far more than her sober sister. The wine had brought roses to her face. She was giggly and merry. Strangely loose. She kept touching and petting her son. Caressing him. She shifted in her seat, and her enormous tits swung heavily under her blouse. He saw with some fascination that her nipples were erect and poking through her bra.

“Oh, it’s not really haunted. Those abuelitos love to yap-yap-yap among themselves.” She made a talky-talk gesture with her hand…but looked suddenly uneasy. “Just in case, I had Deacon Calabrese sanctify every room with holy water. Just to drive out anything…evil.”

“Why would there be something evil here, Mom?”

Salma shushed him, and laid a hand on his arm. Hairs rippled under her touch.

“When we bought this house, what did the agent say to your father?”

“That the house was…umm…” Distracted by Mom’s erect nipples, Alejandro’s grammar school English failed him. “…Edificio histórico?”

She rapped his arm playfully. “Nosotros hablamos inglés at the table, Ale! The house is historic. Repeat that for me. HEE-STOR-REEK!”

“Historic.” He knew the word—knew it could mean a lot of things.

Alejandro had once visited Mexico. Mom had shown him her old school in Coatzacoalcos—a stucco building with a faded sign nailed to the wall. “1910—Aquí durmió Pancho Villa.” Pancho Villa Slept Here. Alejandro had dutifully pretended to be impressed, although he had seen a similar sign in the last town they’d visited, and the town before that. There were thousands of Pancho Villa Slept Here signs across Mexico, it seemed. Pancho Villa would have needed to sleep five times a night in five different places for them to all be true. But still, at least it was possible that a famous revolutionary had once spent the night at the Coatzacoalcos school, and that made it historic.

He did not think the family mansion was hee-stor-reek for a similar reason.

“A person once died here,” Salma tapped the table. “In 1935.”

Bored, Ale chopped a cauliflower floret in half. “People die in every house, Mom.”

“What happened to her was worse than just dying.” Mom said, visibly sobering. Her smile became a rictus, then disappeared completely. Her eyes flitted; looking worried. As though something might be listening. “She was murdered. Except it was worse than just being murdered.”

“How was she murdered?” Ale loved murder stories—the gorier, the better.

“They thought she was a witch, and…” Mom shuddered. “I don’t want to talk about it. The agent started describing what they did, and I asked him to stop, it was so horrible. I wish I could forget it!”

And he’d left it alone, because he didn’t want to make her miserable. But he wanted to know how the women had died.

He searched the internet for old auction listings and bills of sale, but found nothing of substance.

Several sources claimed the mansion was historic. But none of them mentioned why.

* * *

Back in the present, Alejandro resumed digging.

He didn’t believe the mansion was haunted. He’d never seen any ghosts; had never witnessed anything paranormal.

But what did the word paranormal mean, honestly? Something not part of the natural order.

Like wanting to fuck your own mother, say. Was that not unnatural? He shuddered. Maybe the house was haunted by a ghost of flesh and blood called Alejandro Pinault Hayek.

Maybe the only paranormal thing here was him.

A cloud drew a thin and ragged veil over the sun. The mansion lay under drifting shadows. Time slowed to a crawl—the seconds felt like they could be cut with a knife.

Ale closed his eyes—

—erotic fantasies of Mom surged into his mind unbidden. He imagined himself on top of her. Fucking her. Making her scream. Squeezing her breasts. Plundering her flesh.

Sexual thoughts crashed through him like smoke through a hookah. In blearily-pictured fantasies, he saw himself fucking his beautiful, obscenely-fleshed mother, plundering her body, rutting her cunt, pumping his cock up her ass, forcing erotic obscenities to surge out with her breath, moaning under his hips.

A huge erection pulsed, tenting Ale’s pants. He started to masturbate it, squeezing his dry cock through rough denim. No, don’t start, or you won’t be able to stop. Dig. You’ll be in deep shit if Mom comes back and you haven’t finished your chores.

Ale groaned, wiped sweat from his brow—like the hardworking protagonist in a Bruce Springstreen anthem instead of the pampered son of a Telemundo queen made good in Hollywood—and continued digging.

He punched the shovel into the earth. A jarring impact rang up his arm.

Chikk—

Another fucking root. Great. There were millions of them in the front drive.

Cursing, he stabbed the shovel into the earth again and again. Same jarring impact each time. It didn’t feel like a root—there was no sense of elasticity or bend, no sense that he was hacking through it with the metal of the shovel. It was like he was trying to dig through a solid bedrock of stone.

A quick look into the hole confirmed his suspicion. There was stone down there. Something was glittering beneath the shovel—hematite or mica or something. He scraped away dirt with the shovel’s pointed tip, intending on yanking out the old paving stone, or whatever it was.

A closer look brought him up short.

He frowned, and stopped.

Strange. It looked almost like a…

* * *

creaaaaakkkk—

The front door swung open behind him.

Blown by the wind, he thought, before realizing there was no wind.

Thud! The door crashed shut, making him jump. A series of sharp, precise echoes hit the flagstones. Footsteps—distinctly female footsteps—were coming down the driveway toward him.

He turned, and saw her.

“Mom…?” he whispered.

Salma Hayek’s shadow split from her body like a switchblade. She strode down the path, propelled by muscular swerves of her hips, blackness leading the way. She stood tall and resplendent, dressed as dark as her shadow, with the tassels of a belt flowing behind her in the wind. Her skirt billowed with the wildness of weather. A storm on a leash.

I saw you drive away, Mom. The shovel fell from his hand. How did you get back inside the house? Where’s the car?

Almond eyes drilled against his like lasers. Terrifying. Inhuman. Too intense to meet—eye contact was like gripping a knife that’s all blade and no handle. Salma’s mouth pressed a short, nearly-bloodless line, then relaxed into something hungry and insatiable.

It looked like she was smiling.

But then, so does a skull.

Her shadow snaked down the path, then swept over him. Eclipsed by her. Alejandro thought a thousand thoughts and spoke none of them. His mouth hung open.

He had often thought he was afraid of Mom but hadn’t been. Ashamed or embarrassed or guilty, yes. But had he ever been at risk of dying? No, and he understood the difference more clearly than ever.

Because he was afraid of her right now.

* * *

Salma stopped and stood. Her beautiful, ravenous face watched him. Her face was a deathmask. Her mouth held the coldest hunger ever felt.

Biting her lip, she thrust her chest forward. Big water-balloon sized tits sloshed ponderously before his face.

Ale’s cock swelled, inflating out his jeans like a bike pump. Terrified or not, he couldn’t stop himself.

“Mom…” he was gripped by a queer melting feeling. He was ice, her eyes a blowtorch. “What’s wrong?”

Salma’s eyes slid onto his bulge as it distended his pants. Her expression did not warm and its hunger did not abate.

“Pretia cruento crunatus,” she said. “Bhuu desco vilo maxus?”

What? “Mom, where’s the car? How did you get back home?”

He made the mistake of glancing around for it, as though it might have re-materialized in the driveway somehow. She hissed with a viper’s rage. A hand snapped toward his chin, caught it, and lifted it. His eyes were forced onto hers. She would not allow him to look anywhere else.

And in that instant, as he flowed like running water down two dark tunnels in her face, he became certain of two things.

First, he should have run a long time ago.

Second, this was not his mother.

She tilted her head down. The planes of her arrogant, regal face descended ten degrees. She had the contempt of a predator. Shadows flowed into curves, then out of them, chased by the harsh sun.

Salma bared white teeth. A shudder skipped through him.

I think I am about to die.

She lifted up both her hands before her flesh-overflowing chest. Fingers clawed at the edges of her bustier…and then tore it wide open, like the maiden in one of her old telenovelas.

She did not undress. Wrong word. What she did had as much resemblance to undressing as it did to a hyena stripping a carcass.

Her hands became claws that tore her clothes away. Where they yielded, they yielded. Where they didn’t, she ripped the fabric in half. White-knuckled fingers destroyed the bustier. Buttons pulled, then exploded from their threads with yielding pops. Alejandro felt one skip against his shoes, bouncing away.

Then she stood in her underwear, with only a 34H bra between his hands and her breasts.

Alejandro gasped. The Bel Air sun scythed down on her, blazing over her skin, illuminating absolutely mountainous flesh boulders. He could see the massive circles of her bra cups, and the huge pools of flesh bulging inside each one, sloshing out anywhere it could—over the gore, against the taut center straps. The upper slopes of her tits exploded from her bra like batter billowing out of a baking tray.

Mom ripped the bra away next. She didn’t unhook it; she tore it to pieces. Her strength seemed demonic. He blinked as a spoke of silver underwire exploded from one of the cups, nearly impaling her awesome left breast. It raked a red line on her deep cinnamon skin. No blood flowed from the scratch.

He blinked as Mom’s pendulous breasts sagged and spilled, collapsing down her chest in a heavy avalanche. A landslide of luscious mammary meat glistened sweatily before his eyes.

Breasts he’d witnessed through a slit in her bedroom door bounced, jolted, and settled to rest. Nipples stared without awareness or sight. They seemed twice as lewd and erotic now that there was no door between them. He imagined how they’d feel between his teeth.

Ale goggled, mouth opening and closing. He shrank from her. Shrank from the fulfillment of all his fantasies and wants. Shrank.

Mom just strode forward—claiming space he’d surrendered, then claiming space he hadn’t—until they were face to face now, eye to eye. Their breath met in the space between, cross-currents at war. Her exhales felt strangely cold as it touched his skin and stirred his head. Like she was made of ice inside. Only ice…

“Pretia cruento crunatus.” She spat harshly. “Bhuu desco vilo maxus?”

The strange words lashed him like braided whips. A jerk spasmed through him, and his half-hard cock ballooned back to full size in his pants.

His mother crashed into him, and began grinding her luscious figure against him. Salma clawed Alejandro forward, pulling him into an embrace that felt beyond incestuous…it felt positively vampiric. He felt lust like never before, reinforced with a heartwood of pure terror.

Salma pressed herself to him, undressing him with machinelike speed. He felt his shirt torn away, whiffing through his hair. Then her hands were grasping palmfuls of his chest. Next, her breasts spread upon his chest like oven-warm bread dough.

Salma Hayek smiled her bloodhungry smile, and leaned in.

Lips parted. Her thick lascivious tongue spilled out. It glistened in the sun, a slick red road of ice. Then its wanton tip touched his chest, and she began slurping.

Her head dipped and glided low, kissing and sucking bare skin. Her tongue painted out saliva in an unending moist highway over his skin—looping, whorling, reconnecting. She tugged at his nipples with her teeth. He moaned softly, feeling cool air outline the places her tongue had lashed.

What the fuck—

Alejandro felt faint as her tongue pulsed on his chest, laving him, preparing him like a Biblical sacrifice, then finally rising up his neck, which thrummed with a horrified heartbeat.

—is going on.

Then their heads crossed paths, twisting in opposition.

One breath, then Mom kissed him deeply.

Her lips had a brazen, ardent heat. Alejandro’s mind ignited in a wash of blue flame as the taste of her lipstick smashed his mind apart.

Salma tore at his face with hers, grinding and rotating her sucking lips against his. Whorish and wanton, she kissed in a manner that would have been forward with anyone, let alone her son. Pushing and driving and taking control with her mouth, a madame on a schedule, a clock ticking beside the bed for her next client, Salma’s tongue punched into his mouth, curved around his teeth and gums, and began sensually exploring deeper. She scooped her son’s head and forced him onto the impaling thrust of her kiss.

As her lips and tongue surged through his mind, Salma growled lustily. She swung her busty, pneumatic body against him, planting the ripe brown dough of her heavy breasts against his chest until they soukked out on each side. Her nipples throbbed, twin bullets of excitement. As her bare skin slithered against his, he barely noticed other things she was doing—unbelting him, tugging down his pants, letting his raging boner spill out.

Ale quivered as her tongue slid from his mouth, and her head began to descend on his chest once more.

Her whole body fell into a kneel, until her slurping mouth reached crotch level.

Then she stopped, scouring circles in his shivering belly button with her tongue.

His mind filled with howling noise as his beautiful mother slurped and licked him. His penis throbbed just before her neck, a thick bobbing shaft hungry for any hole it could find—any wetness, any heat.

Her eyeline flashed up to his. Her eyes burned and scalded with lust and need and want. For him. For the fruit of her loins.

Oh.

As perverse as his own desires were, hers seemed doubly so. She was strict, she was a prude, she was the opposite of the characters she played on screen…

And now all of that had fallen from her, revealing this.

Mom knifed her head downward in a killing, gutting curve, and plunged her mouth onto his crotch.

He gasped as she swallowed his prick in one lusty gulp. Her cheeks hollowed as his erection fucked her face. She drew his cock deep into her mouth, swallowing his hot and wet shaft—her tongue tore gyrations around his thick erection, pressing it like acupuncture against veins and nerve endings, teaching each one to sing. Perchance to dream. Perchance to scream.

“M…Mom!” Ale bleated, trembling as she deep-throated his huge erection. His modest Catholic mother was panting with the hunger a fox feels when it breaks into a hen house. Hunger that leads to the slaughter of not the one bird it needs to eat, but every bird it can get.

Alejandro watched her bob on his cock, not even truly afraid.

He was almost certain he’d already died…

“Umfff!” Ale exhaled as she sucked him languidly, drawing precum from his oozing shaft. His hips buckled with lust. He was about to orgasm already.

Pumping in and out, driving liquid pulses of sound from her wet frothing mouth, Alejandro’s mind and nerve endings all burned in the same endless fire.

Then, inexorably, she pulled his hips forward, taking him down, down, down into her wet gullet.

His dick pushed down into her throat. Her cheeks caved in as she slurped, her fat lips suckling lewdly on the throbbing base of his erect shaft.

He gasped as fingernails tore flesh at the backs of his thighs. Her whore’s tongue swooped back like a cobra, jabbing thick and heavy on his prick head. His kneeling mother was now probing the slit of his glans with a gentle, questioning rhythm; like a thief picking a lock.

A hand left his hamstring and fell upon his cum-bloated ballsack.

Squeeze. Shudder.

“Mom, I’m gonna…!” Words died—thought died—as delicate manicured fingers sculpted the shivering clay of his balls, kneading them and teasing the glands festering there, challenging him to hold his load beneath her touch.

A challenge he swiftly failed.

As orgasm swept over Alejandro. His mouth swung open, silently screaming, and the world redshifting to nonsense as he swelled and blasted in his mother’s mouth.

His reproductive tract lurched. Cum swirled down his tubes, and pleasure screamed through him like a flamethrower.

As spunk flooded down his cock, Mom pulled her mouth off with a wet suctioning sound—pop! She let it jerk and jerk in the air as he climaxed, firehosing white jets out into the air.

And all over her.

His cumslit erupted and spat, dousing her kneeling figure. Semen volleyed from him in thick, powerful spurts, each looping over the last as it drenched her face and chest.

Cum slashed her right cheek, frosted her left eyebrow, sprayed overlapping graffiti over her nose and zygomatic arch. Another rope spewed wetly into her collarbones, flooding them. Two more shots were swallowed by the shadowy cleft of her enormous boobs.

A hot, viscous, a seemingly endless stream spewed over Salma, with still more bubbling up behind it. Alejandro blinked in disbelief as his pungent ball batter splattered out over her. He had ejaculated three times already that day, and had no idea where this massive load was coming from.

Finally, his cock finished ejaculating, releasing a final spurt over her wobbling parade-float breasts. Then she stood up, cold and imposing. Semen spilled from her curves and hollows. He felt disgust at the substance expelled from his body. It seemed slightly less foul than shit.

Ale quivered as she lifted an arm, and touched a hand to his shoulder. The world was going dark and cold. The fire that had burned inside it burned no longer.

His dimming vision recorded a monstrous woman who had seemingly grown ten feet, or perhaps ten miles. Her gaze landed on him like crushing anvils…and for the first time, he saw her.

Truly saw what she was.

“Cruento paashaeximus,” the daemon said, fingers elongating to claws.

His legs started to collapse. As he went down, his mind seemed to slip out of his falling body like it was an ill-fitting suit. Alejandro lay shuddering on the lawn as demonic bells rang and rang and the grass burned to ash…

* * *

“Ale! ALE!”

Mom’s voice screamed him awake like a fire-siren.

Alejandro jerked out of unconsciousness, as though a bungee cord had ripped him back to wakefulness.

He opened his eyes. He lay collapsed in the driveway of the family mansion. Mom’s Acura gleamed in front of him, driver’s side door open, engine humming. She hadn’t even switched off the car before rushing to check on him.

“Mom…” he whispered. The word sounded odd; didn’t mesh with reality. He felt like he’d said hi Kitty to a snarling Sumatran tiger.

Salma’s face unfroze with relief. She and jerked him into a hug, her hands patting comfort onto his back. She was surprisingly strong.

“I just got back and found you like this…oh Ale, you’re bleeding!”

Bleeding? He rubbed his head, and felt pain flare. Wincing, he traced the thread of pain that stitched a line along the sphenoid structure of his skull. Blood had dried down his face: his fingers crusted it away in hard glittering shrapnel. The red line of dried blood traced itself upon the concrete, wavering downhill, then vanished into the hole he’d dug in the lawn—or had started to dig.

“I’m…okay…” As he stared into the eerie black hole in the grass, filled with shadow from the setting sun…he had no idea if he was okay. Or what okay even meant.

What had happened?

What hadn’t happened?

His last memories were simply insane and unbelievable. A thing that looked like his mother had torn away her clothes and sucked his cock. The memory of it swirled through his mind, burned through nerve endings. His skin prickled as he recalled the sensations of her fingernails tapping on his thighs, the way his cock had furrowed down her tongue’s terminal sulcis.

Mom cradled him in her arms, cooing softly. He stared at the monster breasts bulging against his chest, and remembered dousing them with cum. The thought made him swell with another erection.

My pants are still around my ankles… He glanced down past her body at his lower half, and saw he was still fully dressed. Had someone had re-dressed him, after he’d blacked out? Who?

“Mom,” he stood up, and touched a steadying rudder of a hand to her shoulder. “I’m okay. Really.”

“Oh, Ale, after I had that fight with you this morning, and then saw you lying on the grass…” her lip trembled. She held back tears. “Thank God you are still here. Thank God you are okay. You can’t imagine where my mind goes. I thought you had taken pills or something.”

He blushed, embarrassed, wanting to draw close yet also pull away and hide. “It’s fine. I’m fine. You’re fine. We’re fine.”

It sounded less like the truth each time it left his mouth.

Mom’s mascara’d eyes were staring at him, but not in predatory hunger. They were warm now—almost bleeding with empathy.

“I thought God was punishing me,” she whispered. “What you said…I wish you hadn’t said it…but it’s a small thing. Only a small thing…we can be forgiven…small things…”

There was more that Ale scarcely heard. He seemed to exist in a tiny, sweaty room with his own heartbeat and nothing else—rising, accelerating, becoming the concretized mass of all shame and guilt. There was no room for anything else.

His attraction to his mother did not seem like a small thing. It seemed like the biggest thing.

Serious question…am I going insane? Cradled by his mother, he let his eyes flicker across mysteries. Hole in the ground. Ribbon of blood dried like glue across the pavement. Mother’s flesh. His pulse thundered, and the sun was murdered again by scudding clouds, which rippled and converged like skin over a badly-healed sore. He shuddered against all the wrongness and unease convulsing his skin. There seemed to be so much that wasn’t right about this world.

Maybe I got too hot on a day that wasn’t hot, and passed out under a sun that wasn’t that bright, and hallucinated everything. Like Pancho Villa sleeping at Mom’s old school, it was at least a theoretical possibility.

But then Salma hugged Ale one more time, still cooing about a forgiveness that he knew wouldn’t last.

Still, he would have once self-eviscerated for such close contact with her skin—so hot, so distaff to her cold prudish manner. But now it just deepened his disquiet, adding another layer of confusion.

As her body pressed against his, he got a quick view down her blouse.

He glimpsed a cut. A stark red line.

The same one her bra underwire had left on her skin, when she’d torn it apart in his dream.

Alejandro stopped trying to understand anything. He sank into her arms, and tried to make the moment last.

* * *

Once Mom was sure he was okay, she went inside.

And he went to the hole he’d half-dug.

“Don’t bother digging any more,” she’d said. “I’ve changed my mind. Viburnum Emerald Lustres are too thirsty for summer.”

But he did bother. He went to the hole anyway, which he now regarded as his hole.

As he’d thought, it had stone at the bottom, about a foot or two below. But it was not a pebble or a paving stone. It was something else.

He crouched over it—peering into a deep void of dark, torn like a wound in the world—and shined a light into it.

Light washed over a wet, glistening underworld. He saw ragged roots, still half-bleeding sap from where the shovel had shorn through them. He saw worms whole, and worms hacked apart. He saw—briefly—a scurrying of antennae and carapaces, thousands of insects fleeing back into the dirt.

And at the bottom…

He scraped away handfuls of slime and loam…until he saw a face staring back at him. He flinched. The face did not.

It was a statue, buried in the ground.

TO BE CONTINUED

A/N: The weird language used in this story is adapted from the PC game Blood. It’s the tongue (described by the developers as “a mixture of Latin, French, and Sanskrit”) used by the cultists who comprise the game’s primary enemies. don’t worry about it or try to translate it. It is not my intent that you understand it.