Chapter 2—Teach Us The Wisdom
The mystery at Salma Hayek’s mansion deepens as she hires a maid.
Alejandro pulled the statue from the flint-cold mouth of the earth.
Heave. Wrench. The stone idol came free—sucked loose, the hole like a living mouth, trying to swallow it back. Even once it was out, the soil fought to reclaim it. A network of roots and runners had wrapped around it, lashing it to the ground. Once he tore them, they trailed from the stone like shattered chains.
Alejandro clasped the statue to his chest, seeing movement stir in the dark pit. A quivering pudding of worms—some crushed and dead, most writhing with life, all wet and slippery and gemstone-iridescent—lay in a thick pool at the bottom. Hundreds of worms. Alejandro had never seen so many worms in one place. He wondered why they had come.
He wondered the same thing about himself.
He shoveled dirt back into the hole, covering the worms and their blindly questioning heads. Then he hid the statue in the garage. Then he went to bed. Sleep was long in coming—he felt the statue’s stare, even with many walls in between.
That night, he dreamed of the dark thing he’d found.
Dreamed of a hideous stone figure, too large for doll, too small for statue, eighteen inches long and carved from stibnite-black rock.
Dreamed of a collapsed and rotten face, set in a skull like a crumbling sponge. Its bleak stone visage sagged inward, concave and full of odd negatives. An obdurate stone face, corrugated in a snarl or a sneer or a scream (he couldn’t decide which; it somehow looked like all three.)
Dreamed of knotted, twisted arms and gesturing hands, with one hand snaked forward in benediction, the other raised in salute of heaven or hell. It reminded him of the Baphomet goat adorning a thousand heavy metal album covers—not the same, but not different in any meaningful way. Two compass needles may point different angles north, but to north they point nevertheless.
Dreamed of enormous bloated breasts, bulging in massive sacks around and against supplicating hands. The statuette made the Venus of Willendorf look like an Ozempic poster child. An obscene erotic aura blazed from the massive-breasted statue. It turned his mind into a palpitating, heaving cauldron of ugly, sinful thoughts. After placing it in the garage, Alejandro found his pecker tenting his pants, nagging for another stroke session. He’d orgasmed five times that day already, but that didn’t seem to matter. He’d skulked into the house, trying to avoid Mom on the way to the bathroom. After ten tugs, he’d begun shooting into a dozen tissues.
It was a vile thing. Despicable. He tried to imagine the mind of the sculptor and just…couldn’t. You’d gouge out your eyes partway through chiseling that thing, You’d cut off your hands at the wrists.
Where it had come from? Who had planted it like a seed beneath the mansion? Ale didn’t know, but when he thought of the statue lying unseen beneath them—eavesdropper to rages and screams and fights, to a divorce, to Mom’s downward spiral into obsessive Catholicism, his own plunge into more perverse territory when he’d begun to notice the body she was now modestly covering up—he felt a bit sick. If it has ears to hear, it knows so much about us.
He could not read the weird runes and engravings swirling upon its stone skin, an arcane grimoire carved into black breasts and arms and belly. He just scraped off some of the dirt, changed, turned off the lights, and tried to forget.
He woke after midnight.
Something was sucking his prick.
He gasped awake, nostrils flaring. Darkness lay across him in hot, viscous oil.
His cock throbbed in the dark. It was erect and ablaze with sensation and rapidly approaching orgasm…
…and clamped in place. Anchored by a heavy, pressing weight.
A mass of meat seemed to spread across his waist, shifting with life. Slippery sensations probed and tugged at his prick’s nerve endings, vibrating and slithering, painting hot, aching stripes along his length. Making him mad. Phantom force squeezed upon his glans. Thrilling. Chilling. More like being tickled than sucked off. His ears registered moist slobbering noises.
Ale remembered the thousands of red worms knotted beneath the demonic statue, and imagined them piled upon his cock. Suddenly, he was very close to screaming.
Was this a dream?
SQUUUUEEEEELLLLLCHHHHH! SQLLLLLLCHHHHH-PLOP! SQUUUUISSSSHHHHH!
Despite masturbating with wrist-injuring frequency and ferocity, Alejandro had frequent wet dreams of his mother. Several times a week he’d wake at night, hips jerking, moaning her name, pumping thick blasts of sperm into his pajamas. This could have been one of them…except…
…his wet dreams did not ever have sound.
His eyes were adjusting to the dark. He tilted his head down, and by watery moonlight saw the thing postured high upon his crotch, head down, feasting like a vampyre on his cock stalk.
He saw bedsheets flung aside, sweat gleaming on a woman’s shoulders, ribbons of saliva spewing from her lips as she fucked her face onto his crotch.
SCHLOOOOORRRRRKKKKK-GLUUUUURRRRPPP-SPLAAAAATTTT!
…Mom?
She plunged and slurped her whore-thick lips around his glistening penis. Her breasts were colossal. They flowed, wobbling across his narrow hips in twin rivers of pale, pendulous meat. His waist seemed submerged and smothered by gallons of warm naked tit-flesh. He did not think he could move from beneath her piled-high body even if he wanted to.
The woman curved her neck, arched her back, and reared her hips up high. Her raised ass seemed to split the room in two like a mountain. She snaked her vast derriere from side to side—her tits ballooned and contracted, wobbling with lubricious ripples, and her mouth unleashed fragrant hot saliva as it tasted, tested, devoured.
Mom. No question mark remained as she sucked his cock down to the base, as throat-filling slobbers caused her immense tits to jiggle.
SCHLUUUUURRRRPPPKKK! Slllluuuurrrppp-gak-gak! SSSSSSCHLLLLUUUURRRRPPP!
He recognized the mass of dark hair—jerked off to it every day through a crack in her bedroom door. His nostrils flared with familiarity, tasting the familiar scent of her lip balm—Sisley Paris Phyto Lip.
He thought he recognized the two Hindenburg-sized dugs slopping from her chest. Curving off his waist like quivering, weighty balloons, sagging beneath their own vast warm weight…he’d never seen them in this pose before.
His feet and ankles shivered as he was blown and throatfucked. She pulled back on her haunches, dragging her magnificent, heavy body backward through clinging moonlight—he felt his cock tilt forward inside her mouth like a lever in a gearbox. His whole body seemed to tilt with his erection. He saw her spike her hips straight up, catching a knife’s edge of moonlight falling through the window—the massive mounds of her ass seemed to blaze like a Viking funeral.
Her breasts quivered, and she sucked hard. His cock vibrated, plastered on every side with warm wet mouth-meat. He felt saliva ooze down his balls, pooling on the bedsheets under his balls. It itched like engraver’s acid.
Moaning, Alejandro began stirring his hips in rhythmic circles. Anti-copying her greedy plunges—fucking forward when she drew back, slithering right when she tugged left, yinning to her yang. As he churned his hips through a Paris Phyto scented abyss, he squeezed her massively-stacked tits.
Sweaty hands closed upon two fat keg-sized tits, pressing crime-scene fingerprints into their huge wobbling surfaces. It was like holding balloons filled with warm, living jelly. Groaning with delirious lust, he squeezed as he fucked his cock into her mouth. Ribbons of his mother’s obscene moonlit breast-cannons threatened to swell out, overwhelming his fingers entirely.
Squeezing her molten flowing tits, he wriggled his hips. He sweated against his bedsheets. His cock cut brief sword-slashes through dark sucking flesh. His genitals seemed submerged in something thick, clinging, and earthy. Cold, yet fragrant with rot and decay. Dead, yet more alive than he could ever hope to be.
Like…like…like I’m fucking a hole in the ground. Feverish, growing frantic with his need to cum, Alejandro intensified the bucking of his hips. Little spasms that flung him further down her slurping mouth.
Like I’m fucking worms. My cock is stabbing down, mashing them to pulp of dribbling insect matter. Crushing their blind little heads as they rise to stare at the sun. Smearing their wet little brains in paste across my cock. Why am I thinking this?
She arched and turned her head, and then his cock furrowed along her grooved tongue, spearing down her tongue.
Like I dug a hole in the ground and just…
…started…
…fucking.*
He hammered her mouth, his hefty cockmass bulging out her throat and sinking deep into her gullet.
He ejaculated in a hot, clenching rush. Spasms rang through him, turning his skin into rippling sheets. His balls pulsed and gouted out their load in thick, surging releases.
The sound of sperm sliding up his shaft and splattering out into her throat was shockingly loud and viscous. Her throat became a sewer for his copious sexual fluids. He gushed out his abundant ball-slop in silver rushes, hearing them gurgle down the woman’s throat.
SCHLOOOOOP… schloop… schlp… GLUUUURRRK… glurk… glk…
“Why…”
He lay quietly, as if slain, hearing the sound of his orgasm thunder inside his stunned and bleeding mind. A depraved sound rushing away down into his innermost gutters. His eyes fluttered shut. Rapture. Oblivion. Absolute pleasure filled him until he overflowed.
I am so happy I want to die.
Or maybe he had died, and thus was happy. Also a possibility.
The obscene slurping stopped. The head lifted from his sated, post-orgasmic penis. He felt his softening cock pull free of her mouth, going shlapp on his quivering belly.
She raised her head and made eye contact…or didn’t, because she had no eyes…
Her face had vanished. Like an apple that has rotted from within. Now only a black hole remained, coring out her features.
A blood-freezing shriek tore out of him like vomit, his consciousness sundered and exploded to pieces, and when he returned to his body, he was panting.
…and alone in his room.
It was dark. His bedsheets were strangulation-tight, plastered wetly over his waist. He glanced at his bedside clock, saw a weird nonsense time—88:88—and momentarily believed he was trapped in some weird House of Leaves hell before remembering he’d forgotten to change the batteries.
What a weird wet dream. He touched his crotch. The bedsheets were moist and sticky. He reached underneath, and found his slack penis. It was jerking with rubbery spasms.
He pulled out his hand, and sniffed his fingers.
No semen. The fingers were nearly odorless. He smelled something else on his fingers, but only briefly, before it vanished too.
It could have been the scent of Paris Phyto lip balm.
A few hours later, he stood beside Mom’s bedroom door, staring into a slit of forbidden light.
She curved and swayed on her bed, brushing her hair and looking as she always did—like a ship’s figurehead carved from brown, aching wood. A Catholic hymn surged from her lips in a river of sound that switched between raging whitewater English and meandering, tidewater Spanish.
“Eye has not seen,ear has not heardwhat God has readyfor those who love him;Espíritu de amor, ven,danos la mente de Jesús,enséñanos la sabiduría de Dios…”
Ale’s hand tugged and pulled at his cock with little enthusiasm. Like manipulating a length of rubber.
He was numb and shellshocked from the day’s mysteries, the night’s horrors. It was hard to fantasize about his mother’s obscenely wallowing breast-sacks without thinking about the statue in the garage. And after his wet dream, he had no particular need to ejaculate a second time.
But he jerked off over Mom’s door every morning for the same reason Mom attended Mass every week, even when she didn’t feel like it.
It was who he was.
He ejaculated unexpectedly, out of nowhere. He hadn’t felt a tinge of pleasure building before he released. He hadn’t noticed how close he was. A sharp intake of breath left his lips, then ragged bubbling white ropes were flying over the door. He gasped, his brain shorting out around orgasmic spasms. He was vaguely, academically aware of ribbons jerking from his crotch, splattering like graffiti over her door.
He panted his way down from his orgasm, blinking at the load of cum—only half the size of his usual morning expulsion, but still substantial—which lay in a graffiti-scrawl of clinging, smelly strings on the mahogany. He indulged in his customary self-flagellation—you’re scum, you’re a worm, you’re the worst of the worst of the worst—until guilt subsided. Or until he became too numb to feel it.
As Mom began slinging her enormous breasts into her Gore-Tex-reinforced maternity bra, he realized time was short.
Weighing haste against silence, he tugged up his jeans and reached for the tissues in his pocket.
The hand touched bottom. No tissues.
Fuck!
Heart hammering, he retraced his steps down the hall. Tissues. Where are the tissues? He looked everywhere. On the countertop, on the floating breakfast bar, in the cupboards… I never have trouble finding tissues. Why now? Fucking why?
He finally found some—in plain view beside the goddamn toaster, he must have looked past them a dozen times—but when he ran back to Mom’s bedroom door, he saw that there was no need.
…someone had cleaned up his semen for him.
He stared closely at the wood, puzzled. He’d ejaculated hundreds of loads against the door. The wood had drunk so many liters of his semen that the point of impact was permanently shiny and glistening, no matter how hard he tried to scrub the shininess away.
But today, the shininess looked…actually wet. Unusually so.
As if someone hadn’t just wiped away his cum, but had licked it off.
He put his nose to it. Sniffed. Again, he could not say it was Sisley Paris Phyto Lip Balm, but he also couldn’t say it wasn’t. A shudder found him, crawled through his deepest sewers, crawled over his palpitating skin. Inside and outside, it made him squirm.
What is going on?
Mom’s dulcet Norteño flowed from the bedroom to his ears.
“Ni el ojo ha visto,ni el oído ha escuchadolo que Dios ha preparadopara los que le amanSpirit of love, come,give us the mind of Jesus,teach us the wisdom of God…”
Ale’s mind loped at post-orgasm gallop, trying to puzzle out the riddle. Could Mom have possibly…?
He chanced another peek. Mom was almost fully dressed now, but still sitting in the exact same Salma-Hayek-sized indentation she’d been parked in before. She clearly hadn’t moved even an inch to the right or left. Also, she would have had to open the door to go outside. You didn’t hear it open.
A shiver cut like a knife through Alejandro’s flesh. It was like he was an empty tunnel, and a strange and cold wind was now racing down it.
He turned his head in the direction of the garage, where the strange statue seemed to watch.
Watch, and perhaps wait.
“Time for school, Ale!” Mom’s voice was a knife, spearing through the house’s every wall.
Tugging on his school blazer, he trudged to the car—following Salma’s audaciously swaying butt.
She pulled the car door open and swung her buxom body in a downward-sweeping arc that left her big ass planted behind the seat of the family car Ale swallowed, seeing voluptuous assmeat spill across the seat, and muffin-top above her jeans. His jeans tightened with another erection.
To distract himself from Mom’s body, he glanced at the back of the garage, where the statue was jammed between decaying bags of mulch. In the Los Angeles heat, the moist dirt was already becoming sand. He could clearly see the intricate carvings on the statue now.
Mom did not appear to notice the statue.
“I’ve found a housemaid.” She flicked the turn signal as they left the driveway.
“Great,” Ale said. Fewer chores for me. “But I thought nobody wanted to work here.”
“It’s a private contractor. Not someone from the usual companies celebridades hire. She contacted me, and sent some references. She’s a white woman. Mujer blanca. I’ve never seen a blonde housemaid before!”
She chewed her lip, seeming distracted. “Ale, can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Yesterday…What you said about my body…” Mom drove him to school. “I can’t stop thinking about it. It truly hurt me. I told you yesterday.”
She raised a hand, cutting across his half-formed word-mush.
“Please answer. Did you mean what you said? Are you attracted to my body, as a man would be to a woman?”
Her eyes cut upward to the rear mirror: watching for his reaction.
A dangerous question to get wrong.
Luckily, also a hard question to get wrong.
“Of course not,” he said offhand, keeping his eyes off the wobbling and lurching of her chest as she went over a speed hump. They’re so huge they’re pressing into the steering wheel. A spark of inspiration struck him then. “I heard my friends saying it at school. It’s just a dumb guy thing, where you act like you’re into MILFs.”
“What is a ‘meelf’?” She screwed up her face. “Actually, never mind. I think I know. But it made me feel horrible, anyway. Like a piece of meat.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Sorry.”
Nostrils flared. She often seemed irritable when he apologized for things. As though she resented him trying to crawl out from under the weight of her judgment—as if she wanted him forever guilty and unforgiven, cringing like a dog.
“Your friends are leading you astray, then,” she said flatly. “But I must face the fact that this is also my failure. I am the parent, charged by God with bringing you up correctly. And I have failed.”
She took control. Her jaw was set like stone.
“Starting from tomorrow, we set you out on the right path. No more unfiltered internet access. We throw that terrible Bible you have. We give you a real copy. The Keeng James.”
She went on down this path for some time. Nag, nag, nag.
“Mom,” he whined. “I thought you said it was a small thing.”
She shook her head. “I was just happy you weren’t hurt, so I white-lied. Mentira piadosa. It was not a small thing at all.”
He wilted.
“It was actually disgusting to hear.” She was spiraling upward into a thunderhead of anger. Rage flared in her eyes. Her huge breasts bounced, ripples distorting the fabric of her dress. He wondered how to calm her down. “I am losing my son. You play horrible anti-Christian games. You whinge and moan when it’s time for church. I see where this leads, Ale. You will descend to utter depravity, until nothing is too vile to commit. You will stalk some girl, and attack her. You will pin her down, and strip away her clothes, and she will wriggle in your grasp and not be able to escape. And you will rape her. Read the newspapers. Read what men do to women every day. I will not lose you to that road, Ale!”
Uh, that scenario got weirdly specific and detailed. In the rear mirror, he noticed her nipples were erect and pebbling through her dress.
“I will save you from yourself,” she murmured, parking in front of the school. “We are re-consecrating you, starting tomorrow. You will be a man of Christ.”
He wanted to argue, to defend himself. But he’d lived with Mom long enough to know what worked and what did not.
“Sure, Mom.” He faked a smile. “A man of Christ. Let’s rock.”
“I do it because I love you.” She flicked her eyes onto him, trying to spot mockery. There was no love in her eyes. Only flinty Catholic vengeance. “You understand, yes?”
“I love you too, Mom.”
“Do you really?” she murmured softly, as her hand crunched the handbrake into PARK. “I wonder sometimes, Ale…”
Fuming and horny, he got out, slammed the car door, and slouched toward the school.
The frantic, chattering monkey-zoo noise of school engulfed him as he crossed onto the playground. It had a more excited tenor than usual. Today was the last day of school. The thought of summer break filled him with sadness. Parties for everyone else. Bible lessons for Ale. Great.
He strode onto the concrete squad, exchanging fistbumps, flirts, and half-serious disses. He cut his gaze in a broad sweep, looking for his friends, until he saw them gathered around a cracked cement pillar: a loose mix of white boys who fronted Chicano, Chicano boys who fronted white, poor boys who fronted rich, and rich boys who fronted poor.
Today there were four of them, decked out in school blazers and high-end casual wear. Jake McManus was tall and loopy and lanky. Anthony Pereda’s huge stomach hung out of his shirt. At the back, Michael Lambright wore glasses and shittalked everyone—he seemed to think the glasses made him unpunchable, and infuriatingly, it appeared he was right. Lastly, there was Eduardo Barreda, with his hair buzzed cancer-patient short except for a single forelock hardened to titanium stiffness with gel. The kid could kill you with a headbutt.
As Ale approached, Eduardo grinned and waved.
“Sup Alejandro! You’re a breath of fresh ass!”
They all brayed laughter. He shrugged, deadpan. “I don’t watch Mom’s movies. If that’s a reference to something, I didn’t get it.”
He’d tried to keep his famous mother a secret, but it hadn’t worked. Word got around.
Ale pushed past Eduardo, to where Anthony was dorking out on his phone as per usual.
“Yo, Ant! Can you help me with something here, ese?” Ale showed the chubby senior a photo of the weird statue. “Your Dad’s like an archaeologist, right? Can you ask him what it is? I found it in my backyard.”
Ant gave a grudging nod. “He gets mad at me .”
Michael goggled at the statue’s gigantic boobs. “Damn, Ale. Little early for you to be flexing your Mom’s nudes at us.”
Ha, ha. Alejandro’s lip curled. He texted Anthony the photo, then defensively clicked his phone off.
“Enjoy, bro,” he said to Michael. “Closest to a titty you’ll get this summer.”
“Aww, look how mad he’s getting,” Michael slung an arm over Alejandro’s shoulder. “You’re so attached to your Mom it’s a little weird, man. How old were you before you stopped breastfeeding? Hey, I can’t hate. If Salma Hayek was my Mom, I woulda kept breastfeeding until the age of, oh, forty-six. That nipple is not leaving my mouth.”
The four seniors laughed at Ale’s embarrassment. He burned inside. Somehow this line of talk bothered him even more than it normally did. He remembered agitated muscles flexing in her jaw. 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.”
“Cut it out,” he said, eyes devoid of humor. “That’s my Mom. Speak about her with some respect, or you’re not using my pool this summer. Or my Xbox.”
“Damn, bringing out the nukes,” Eduardo raised his hands in defeat. “Okay, I’m sorry, man. Your Mom gets respected. Whatever. I’m Number One Ale’s Mom Respecter.”
They apologized, said they’d crossed a line.
“Thanks,” Ale said. “That’s all I want. I know I’m sensitive about it, but…hearing sexual stuff doesn’t make me feel good.”
He had fifteen minutes to fill, and a head full of shame and dark thoughts.
He slid away to the bathroom and he jerked off again, an angry little ball of self-hate. Please don’t sexualize my Mom, guys! That’s my job!
Ha-ha! Fuck.
At the moment preceding orgasm, his vision flickered. Dark stabbed in, breaking the light to pieces.
He blinked, shocked and disoriented. In the mirror he perceived a dim silhouette, standing behind his own. Black hair rose like a halo of static. His eyes widened as features flooded into the face as though being drawn in real time—a sagging face, empty eye sockets that were gaping and eyeless and dark and weltering with worms. Hundreds of them, crawling from her staring white skull.
Then it was gone, and he was back and whole and miserable, gasping and spewing jizz into a wadded handful of lavatory paper. The light above seemed far too bright. Damnation bright. Inferno bright. Mom could not save him from hell. In that moment, he became certain that he was already there.
He went to Eduardo’s place after school.
He tried—failed—to distract himself with Super Smash Bros. Thoughts raced. Fear stalked the back of his mind. He kept checking his phone, to see if Anthony had learned anything about the statue. Staring at the statue made him think of breasts, and breasts made him think of Mom. His cock grew hard, and he excused himself to use the bathroom. Five minutes later, after flushing more sperm-soaked tissues down Eduardo’s toilet, he guiltily rejoined his friend on the couch.
The strange statue was never far from his thoughts. He both wanted to understand it, and strangely didn’t.
Edu’s dad invited him to stay for dinner, admitted his true motives—I got a car that needs an oil change and my lumbar scoliosis is flaring up. Bet you wouldn’t mind doin’ it for me, right kid? Haha.
Ale graciously did the oil change and politely declined the dinner offer. If Mom was about to begin a reign of terror then staying late at a friend’s house would be unwise. He didn’t want to give her any excuses for punishments. No doubt she’d find enough on her own. Instead, he asked for a lift back to the Bel Air mansion.
He shut the car door, waved a quick goodbye to Eduardo’s dad, and sauntered in…where a surprise was waiting for him.
Mom stood within the doorway, framed by arches that rose around her curvy body like clasped hands of architecture.
She was dressed for the street. She wore a beige peplum bouffant which exposed one shoulder. Skin gleamed. The tea-length dress hung around her sun-brown ankles. Her hair was twisted into Frida Kahlo braids. Her eyes had been slanted to almonds by eyeshadow.
She was despairingly beautiful, but her manner unsettled Alejandro.
“Hey, Mom,” he said, schoolbag digging into his shoulder.
“Ale! Where have you been? The maid is here! Come inside! Are you dressed appropriately to meet her?”
The maid? His mind pinwheeled blindly before grasping the context. Mom hired a housemaid. Right.
“I didn’t know she was starting today,” Ale stammered. The image of a stranger exploring his crusty sock-infested bedroom was a terrifying one.
Her smile unfurled in a blade of white teeth. “She wanted to start as early as I would have her. There is so much to be done. She’s inside, dusting. Why don’t you go and say hello to her? It would be a good chance to practice your Inglés, yes? I have to leave for a production meeting. I will be back late tonight, or maybe tomorrow. I will text when I know! Adiós!”
Mom blew a kiss and then swept past him, heels clicking, dress swishing on the cobbles.
Ale had been abandoned at the mansion with a stranger for company.
Well, goodbye, I guess.
Ale dropped his schoolbag with a thud in the foyer of the mansion, and stepped deeper inside. The building seemed a strange place now, not a home.
“Hello?” He called into its depths, hearing his voice echo back.
He opened a door to the drawing room, and saw a silhouette standing erect at the end of the room, visible against the light pounding against a dust-covered window. The shape had a woman’s figure, curving in and out like a cello.
The maid was not dusting. She was standing, apparently in wait, with her ramrod-straight back turned to face him.
He came closer, and details resolved.
Big, sexy calves shaped by stockings and pumps. Thick thighs poured in heartbreaking lines from a pencil skirt that clung to wide hips and a fat, protruding ass. Black hair streaming down her back in poison-dark rivers, roped into glossy braids, bisected at mid-shoulder with red ribbons.
Black hair? But our new housecleaner was blonde…Mom said so…
…And why was the maid dressed in Mom’s clothes?
He recognized the pencil skirt, recognized the kitten-heeled pumps. These were all items from Mom’s own wardrobe, each item of which he’d inventoried in great detail to add color to his stroke sessions.
Then the hourglass figure twisted, turning to face him, and Ale’s hands squeezed themselves into fists. The planet seemed to sink beneath his feet.
The “maid” was his mother.
Or someone who looked exactly like his mother, down to every single detail.
“Um…” he stammered.
A hand rose to silence him—with no idea what to say next, he was easily silenced.
A frozen-lake composure glazed her beautiful mascara’d face. She carried so much flesh, but she seemed so cold. She was a mountain piled excessively with snow and ice, and he lay in the path of the future avalanche. Her thick red lips twisted a bit at the edges. If it was a smile, it was one lacking any semblance of warmth or humor.
Her eyes were wide and staring and insane. Pools of shadow, as terrible as the bore of Clint Eastwood’s .44 Magnum. He gazed into his not-mother’s face and felt his heart’s rancorous thud bursting against the surface of his chest, over and over. He felt fear. He was fear.
The “maid” stepped forward, her lips curling more, and began undressing before him. She did not break eye contact as item after item of clothing hit the floor. He did, though. Many times.
She untwisted a scarf and sent it sailing across the room like a pennant. Her sexy calves flashed as she kicked off her kitten heel pumps—they went tumbling across the floor, with one clipping his right ankle. Her wide and fleshy hips sloshed, bursting from the confines of her fitted pencil skirt. Her undressing sent chaotic flesh ripples spilling through her body. Breasts swung and bobbled from an unhooked bra.
And then the naked succubus sauntered past him, closing the door at his back. Thud.
She returned to his front. His eyes bulged at her absurdly meaty body. Her bare feet were silent as she padded close, and touched hands to his shoulders. Ten fingers splayed, poised, ready to skewer down like knives.
But this did not happen. Instead, she pulled herself close, big breasts flashing as they caught a shaft of light cutting down from a skylight.
Then not-quite-Salma-Hayek tightened her grip on Alejandro, and aggressively shoved him down to his knees.
“En marana domus nava crunatus,” she explained as she folded herself around him. “Cruo stragarana malaxos!”
He nodded.
It made a certain kind of sense.
She slithered onto him, lacing fingers behind his head, and driving his face into her crotch. Her moans broke the air as their bodies knotted and entwined, as they became like the worms beneath the ground….
Ni el ojo ha visto,ni el oído ha escuchadolo que Dios ha preparadopara los que le aman…
Mom had such a fat, meaty vulva.
A fact he knew because said vulva was currently plastered across his face.
Only total shock was preventing him from immediately cumming. He felt her excited heartbeat thudding through her sweaty, pungent flesh. Her mons bulged like a mushroom against his nose. Her clit jabbed and cut from the hot mass of Mommy-meat, writing sharp jabs on his skin. Like flesh pointillism. Her pungent skin pressed against him, her slit swelling and oozing with incipient lust.
The demon had him pinned to the floor, heavy hips flexing, pressing him down upon the cold marble.
She humped like a dog in heat. Her crotch was socketed over his head like a facemask, her thick legs folded against his ears, pistoning back and forth. He gasped for air as her vaginal skin billowed over his nose.
As she straddled his face, her legs were bent so that her feet curled in the fork of his crotch. Her toes kept kicking out behind her, playfully missing his cock and balls, sometimes lightly brushing the skin.
As Alejandro’s mind reeled, his tongue unspooled, tasting her, then spearing inside his mother’s cunt. Her pussy flesh rippled and shivered as he explored her depths, parting her fleshy petals as he felt deeper and deeper.
Prising apart her weeping folds, he began rhythmically tongue-fucking her trench. She pinned his face between her legs, and sped up her work, humping her hot flushed cunt onto his skull. With sharp stabs of muscle, her hips pulsed against his nose, his cheeks. Pressure, then no pressure. Tide comes in, tide goes out.
GLOOOOOOPPPP-SCHLUUUUURRRRPPP-PLAAAAPPPP!
As Not-Mom fucked her pelvis onto him, Ale lay dazed, half-stunned and naked on the floor, the cold marble seeming to burn. He could not remember undressing. He had an idea that she’d pulled his clothes away. The events of just a few seconds past seemed utterly distant and irrelevant.
Mom leaned in, rolled her center of gravity forward, and took her facefucking assault up a notch. Both her legs scissored inward unseen, aiming at his pelvis. Her feet planted themselves upon his throbbing cock, and began footjobbing him in time with her leaping, squelching hip-thrusts.
SLORP SCHLORP SCHLOP SCHLUPP
Her cunt swallowed his gasps as unbelievable sensation shivered through his genital-meat. How was she doing this? She could not possibly see her own feet from that position, yet her knees were precision-angled to position her meaty soles over his shaft, stimulating him with the ease of his own fist…without even looking.
Well, he reflected as Mom’s thick, leather-skinned soles closed and clasped and warped around his erection, tearing and pulling upon his shaft. She always did have eyes in the back of her head.
Cold toes touched his glans, raking away gobs of prostatic fluid. Her heels pressed tightly upon his balls—they shivered and contracted with the pressure. The hot and cold parts of his body kept switching places like a polar shift as he felt the wrinkles and callouses of her soles grind out compelling, disgusting sensation.
“BUHH!”
With a savage grunt, Mom sped up her squat-thrusts still further. Her flesh was hot and heavy. Her pungent pussy mashed against his face, weeping vaginal fluid down his chin. Her thighs knotted together, their spasms forming a crushing scissor of meat that squeezed against his ears, with her engorged sex grinding and chewing in between. He didn’t know if he was eating cunt or being eaten by cunt.
Thrust. Plunge. Grind. Female cum disgorged over his face, and pooled on the floor. The aroma of her cunt made him lightheaded as he dabbed his tongue at her bucking clitoris—a pathetic gesture, and almost unnecessary. She was humping herself to orgasm, with or without his assent. He could have been a pillow. He could have been dead. Her hips were frantically jackhammering him across the floor—hard to believe she was so strong.
Mom tensed. Every muscle in her body fired. A deep grunt pulsed through her abdominal wall, which he felt on his forehead. Unchaste animal noises gurgled out of her, then she had an orgasm.
“UHHHHH!”
Salma Hayek squirted copiously over his face. He wasn’t prepared for the thick labial curtains to quiver hotly, for her urethra to yawn and fissure in the darkness, for heavy jets of girlspunk to blast out, spraying-splattering-spewing across his nose and cheeks and mouth.
Salma wailed as her cunt released its load, gushing across his face in spasms and torrents. Throaty howls ripped from his Mother’s beautiful mouth as she slammed her juicing crotch onto his head again, and again, and again.
Her orgasm ended just as his began. Her quaking genitals absorbed his own screams as his cock became a white-hot firecracker, firing out cum between her toes and meaty, musky soles.
He spurted, making pathetic jerks with hips pinned in place by Mom’s heavy slabs of thigh. He heard his sperm sail through the dark air of the drawing room. Each cumshot seemed to splat and crack like whipstrokes as they fell—on his skin, on hers, on the cold marble.
Large cum-blasts became small dribbles, then they both lay tangled together, oozing cum from slack, shellshocked sex organs. A lock of black hair had escaped its ribbon, and Ale played with it, wondering what came next.
Mom didn’t wonder.
SCHLOOORRRKKKKKKK!
She heaved her wet cunt of his face. It unsuctioned with the dirty liquid vowel-sound a toilet plunger makes.
He gasped as cold air hit his squirt-splattered features. Then he found himself dragged upright, pulled by a steel-strong hand at his throat, and flung on to a leather couch he’d forgotten was there. It was like being cushioned by a shadow.
Ever since Dad had left Mom—or had Mom left Dad? The particulars weren’t clear and the memories kept changing—the inside of the mansion had grown buried in a clutter of furniture. Coffee tables lay piled in every corner, flower pots multiplying on them like sprouting mushrooms. Antique baroque chairs gathered dust and the corpses of flies and cockroaches. Occasionally, Mom got the idea that they needed new furniture, and impulse-bought something. Often, the same something she’d bought last time, and the time before.
He’d forgotten she’d bought a black fake-leather couch. But it didn’t matter. The couch was still there to absorb his fall. Tacky decor. The kind of furniture bought by twenty-year-old guys who smoke indoors, not fifty-something women or sixty-something men.
Ale lay on the virgin couch—appropriate, he thought humorlessly—watching Mom stand over him like an awful living totem. She lifted a thick thigh and laid its bulk over his chest, pinning him. A hand slid like a blade to his crotch.
He shivered as that hand found his wet organ and began jerking him from rubber to steel. What does she want from me now?
But he already knew. She swung her meaty body over his. Her twat was glistening in the dark, drooling juice in thick strands over fake leather, then over his body.
He understood what she wanted to do on his couch. The only thing you could possibly do on the trashy, vinyl-upholstered thing.
Fuck.
However deep Ale had gone into his own private depravity—he’d always had a defense.
It’s just fantasy. I would never actually do it.
He would never, ever, actually fuck his mother. Touch her, jerk off over her, kiss her, yes. But if the opportunity presented itself, he would absolutely not put his penis inside her vagina.
This was the final line. A boy who actually fucked his mother would be consigned to the lowest level of hell, with a shovel and an order to dig one deeper.
But now, in the dark, a funny thing happened to all the rules, and that one in particular…
…they ceased to exist.
His mother’s heavy body planted on top of him, thighs splayed, bowling-ball sized tits flooding over his chest. Everywhere, an avalanche of hot mature meat spilled over him, crowding out sanity and discernment and morality and everything else.
No lines mattered now.
BLORP SCHLUPP SCHLUPP SCHLUPP SCHLUPP
Mother and son fucked in the dark, locked at crotch and at face, screwing and panting like wild dogs.
Alejandro was a virgin. Unprepared for her cunt’s huge, blind weight as it settled on him, swallowing his penis to the root. Her sheer mass allowed no movement. Salma anchored him to the creaking lounge, riding from on top, grunting and moaning and clawing his chest and back.
SQLOOOSH SHHRRRLLCKK FLORP GLUPHHHRRK
She reared back, swayed on top of his cock, slamming her hips down with piledriving slams of Mommy-muscle. Shockwaves exploded through her flesh, sending her bouncing breasts flying. Sweat and squirt blasted in a fine mist as her crotch pounded and squelched against his.
Splat-splat-SPLAAAAATTTT! PLOOOORRRPPP-SMACK! SCHLOOOOPPP-THWACK!
Her rocking movements flung her tits up and down her chest. He saw her nipples send sweatdrops sailing through the dark air as they whiplashed. Salma Hayek arched her back, threw her chest forward, and tilted her head to the ceiling. She howled—a huntress seeking out her next orgasm, and finding it.
SPLOOOOOSHHH-WHAP! Plap-plap-PLAAAAAPPPP! SCHLUUUUPPP-SMAK!
Her throbbing fuck-sleeve stopped squeezing. They switched positions. Tarzan on top, Jane on bottom. Ale flung his pelvis forward, plowing his rock-hard cock through her fuck-trench. She screamed, meeting each lunge with an upward knife-thrust of her hips. Their bodies collided with a meaty, repetitive slap. Muscles flexed and sweat glowed as they copulated under the skylight.
Ale gripped his mother’s shoulders, his cock plunging into cunt. Breath streamed from his lips, so fast it seemed to scald his throat, as he bounced and was bounced by her luscious, pneumatic body. Explosive kinetic force whiplashed through bone and muscle and meat, rattling him. It was like fucking a pile of live wires, screaming with two-twenty volts.
Inexperienced at sex, he kept pulling back the wrong distance, allowing his cock to spring free in a fleshy lance. Sometimes his hand stuffed it back into her slot, sometimes hers did. But it was never allowed to be outside for long.
Mom’s breath roughened to sandpaper as she approached her next orgasm. His balls were beginning to rise. They were both close.
Gasping, Ale submerged his face in an ocean of fragrant, sweaty titmeat as he frantically rowed his hips into hers, fucking and defiling her moist cunt.
SSSSSLLLLUUUURRRRPPPPSHHH! Gluuuurk-gluuurk-GLUUURRRKKK!
His cock vanished inside her, spraying fluid, swallowed by her slurping maw. He pummeled himself inside her drooling slit faster and faster, dick accelerating into a glistening blurry streak ripping through her wet slapping vaginal meat. Her pussy was a snarling vortex, twisting tighter and tighter, pulling him to the some unimaginable apotheosis.
Cum began crawling up from his balls.
He lunged, found an angle, and punched himself down. Her slippery narthex gulped his erection, and his balls made a hollow CLACK as they slapped her ass.
Mom’s mouth twisted open darkness, fulgurating with a storm of teeth. It hung open and silent for a moment, and then sound left her.
She screamed out a death-scented wind as she climaxed upon his prick.
Every muscle in her pelvis collapsed in a clench. Ale’s control over his load was already breaking to pieces. That clench shattered it completely. His eyes rolled back in his skull as he socketed himself in his mother’s cunt and ejaculated.
SPLUUUUURRRRTTTT! SPLOOOOOOOSHHHHHHH! GUSSSSSHHHHHHH!
Gouts of cum spurted from his prick, splattering and piling against her walls. His cock kicked and jerked inside her sheath, hosing out ribbons of sperm directly into her womb until it overfilled with thick semen. His balls pulsed nearly a dozen times before he ran dry, her screams still echoing in his ears.
He had wind enough in his lungs to plant a messy kiss onto her sucking mouth, but no more. He collapsed atop her, consciousness sliding off the brink.
What did I just do? Alejandro’s slack face slid across the sweat-slippery breasts of his beautiful, ramrod-strict mother, eventually sliding off her chest entirely.
What did we just do? Just a small voice of guilt, barely heard beneath the roar of orgasm. He was glad it was too small to matter.
They lay together, embracing. He heard breath shuddering from broken-feeling lungs, heard a heart trip-hammering through pallid gooseflesh, felt his cock slithering as it shrunk inside a bubbling sea of sperm.
All the sounds came from his own body. He listened closely, but could detect no signs that she was breathing heavily. Or breathing at all.
The hairs on the back of his neck reshuffled. He couldn’t pinpoint the cause.
Until he held still—and sensed the blind lapidary regard of the statue.
TO BE CONTINUED
Leave a Reply