Chapter 4—Life Is Her Mouth
SPLATT! SQLLCHHH! SHHLLOOCKKK!
Salma Hayek panted and drooled on her hands and knees, getting brutally gaped from behind by her son.
Ale’s squelching prick fucked her open from behind, plunging into her with long, cunt-plummeting strokes. Her body swung and bounced beneath the bone-jarring assault.
BLORP-SCHKRLCK-BLORCH-SPLAKK!
Ale thrust and slammed, pounding his mom’s twat. His hips cannoned wetly against his mother’s fat ass, sending explosive ripples rushing through her immensely thick haunches. Over and over, his prick sank from view, devoured by her hot, slurping depths, only to emerge again.
SHLAPP! BLORRPP! SQUISH! SHLURKKK-GLUGG!
Salma’s mouth gaped wordlessly. Her pendulous tits swung violently. Her tawny body exuded streams of glistening sweat. Cum pulsed in jets from her hungry fuck-hole, discharging copiously over her son’s balls, which in turn flung them across the carpet.
GLIRK-GLIRK-GLORK! BLEHCHHH-SCHLOORRRFFF! BLURP GLORP!
Alejandro grappled her ass and scissored his hips into her flesh, blowing her walls apart with his enormous prick.
He seemed fueled by her moans, her gasps, the wrongness of what he was doing. Wrecking his strict domineering mother into a screaming and writhing breedslut, her world shattered and sucked in by nine inches of teenaged cock. Her body sheeted out sweat, erupting in mind-shattering, cunt-splattering pleasure.
BLBBBPPPT-plssss-GLORCH-glurpffff! Pluuuuuurrrrb splat-SCHLOCK!
Salma rolled her hips, and lowered her torso to the ground. She hissed, viperlike. Her fake eyelashes fluttered. Her fat Latina ass cheeks cracked and exploded to life, as cunt-ripping strokes ploughed through them.
SKLARRCH-SPLORT! PLAP-SLOP-SKLUKK!
Alejandro’s schoolfriends sat in a half-circle, watching in horror.
Watching in disgust.
Watching nevertheless.
SCHLORP! SCHLORP! SCHLORP!
Sneering at their shocked faces, Ale tore his cock back out of her cunt, hauling out ropes of pussy-drool. His mother’s fluids poured disgustingly down his balls.
Then he slammed back in.
SPLACK!
The beautiful huge-breasted actress screamed suddenly, eviscerated by her son’s enormous erection. Her hips rocked back into him, pressing against Alejandro’s cock.
As Salma Hayek’s body rocked back and forth, her colossal, dangling tits swung so fast they blurred, becoming a leaping wall of flesh that juddered and roiled wetly in the air. They were like a pair of massive swingsets, sometimes swinging together, sometimes swinging apart. Their bulks would wildly bounce and pinball in different directions, only to club back together in a wet SMACK, spraying her musky sweat across their faces.
Thhhluuuckkkk-gluurrrpp-blappff!
Salma screamed again, her lips tearing open so widely that they each thought they could see into the back of her howling throat.
Her cunt began clenching, spasming in orgasmic contractions.
GLURP! GLURP! GLURRPPP!
In the space between her splayed legs and beneath her penduluming tits, they watched her cuntal flesh tighten before spraying out huge spurts of slippery vaginal fluid in time with her son’s thrusts. It spewed out in incredible quantities over the floor.
SHLOOP-SHHHHLURRRRRKKK! GLORNCH-GLORNCH-SCLORP!
Alejandro continued to rail his mother through her massive orgasm. Her spasming, sucking cunt released a Philharmonic orchestra’s worth of obscene noise as he rammed his way through it, cock slithering from the flanged folds of her lips down to the sanctum of her cervix.
Alejandro howled, crazed and exultant. His strokes slurped out without end—obscene nine-inch plunges of meat, cleaving through cunt, then pulling out of her fuck-hole to drip with stolen fluids. Again and again.
SLAP! SLAP! SLAP! PLAKKKHH!
Salma swung her ass from side to side, twisting his prick inside her. Her demon-driven tongue sang keening litanies. Her flesh jiggled and exploded, flung about by incestuous fucking.
SLAP! SLAP! SLAP! sllaaaanch-PFFFFFT! SHLORK-SHLORK-SHLORK glooooop! BlrlrlrlrlrlrrrPPP!
Salma orgasmed again. Her sweat-dripping face bellowed while her haunches quivered and creamed against his swift-fucking hips.
“UH UH UH UH UH!” Salma’s body clenched, every muscle tautening as she sprayed blasts of girlcum. She moaned out lewd pig-in-heat noises, squirt splattering her son’s thighs.
PLOSHHH—SKLOOOORRRR—PLOOOOOSH!
Alejandro’s hands scooped up gallons of fat flesh from her hips. His fingers flooded with obscene, middle-aged Latina ass flesh, with considerable volumes spilling free despite the force of his grip. His mom’s sheer volume just couldn’t be held with human hands. Or inhuman hands, as the case may have been.
Her cunt knotted down on his shaft, her vaginal rugae gripping and pumping and trying to coax forth his load.
It failed.
After weeks of pummeling his insatiable mother, Alejandro had the orgasmic control of God.
He did not relent, slow, stop, or die in the twisted furnace of her cunt. He just fucked his cock with a metronome’s perfect time, thrusting himself down to the balls into her obscene squirt-squelching box. He took his hands off her wobbling dumper to cup her tits, clasping and dragging their soft blubberous masses back against her torso. A possessive, claiming gesture. Boobflesh bulged out as he gripped and twisted it. Like her ass, her breasts had so much meat that not even ten clutching fingers could entirely stop them jiggling.
SCHLOOORRRKKKKKKK! GLOOOORRRRPPPPP! SCHLOOOOOORRRRKKKKK!
Salma orgasmed a third time, her face angelic with ecstasy as she moaned.
Squirt gushed from her twat, matched by drool spilling from her mouth. Her pussy writhed its frantic churn. Her glossy lips pouted and howled and then vented forth pleasure in sinful torrents.
“AHHHHHHHH!!!!”
SQUELCH! BLOORRRPP! GLUPP!
Ale still didn’t stop his piledriving destruction of her cunt.
The four boys had forgotten their fear. They leaned in close, avidly watching the fuckshow, getting so close to their friend’s fap-fantasy mother that they were in danger of having their skulls shattered with the flailing of a huge breast.
Four cocks had swelled with arousal, throbbing before Salma Hayek’s doggystyle-propped body.
Four pink little cocks stood poised, throbbingly eager for round two.
There would not be a round two.
It was debatable whether there had even been a round one.
Their small, pathetic penises had failed to please the goddess Inanna. Fourfold unworthy, they would never touch Salma Hayek’s divine flesh again.
Succubi and lilim have ever been a wishful male fantasy. As if a female demoness would even want a mortal inside them.
Ale’s enormous cock reared and plunged, shafting into her with urgent strokes until she convulsed in a fourth screaming orgasm. Saliva blizzarded from her open mouth, spraying Jake McManus, who had edged too close to the danger zone.
“STAY AWAY FROM HER!” Alejandro snarled, gripping his mother’s hair as he fucked. “Cruento paashaeximus!”
Jake backed away, blinking in confusion.
Ale panted, insanity pounding through his mind—louder, hotter, harder. He felt like a cracked container that was splitting apart, unable to contain the horrendous force inside it.
As he stared at his friends from over his mother’s sweaty, orgasming body…he found he could hardly recognize them.
He just didn’t know them.
His friends weren’t people.
His cock sliced into his mother, triggering a warm splattery impact of fluid and flesh. Her pussy clenched hard, and she gasped.
His friends weren’t even an abstract concept.
They were like fingerprints on glass, or scraps of food clinging to a plate. They were smudges and debris and noise.
They were fit only to be wiped away.
Why not kill them? he wondered again, thrusting deep.
SPLACK! His hips blasted out squirt as her cunt sucked him to the balls. She hissed, her back shuddering.
Why not? Why not?
No reason presented itself. The motherfucking became still wetter and hotter and dirtier as he ran this line of thought to its conclusion.
His mind gaped open, drowning in bloody fantasies.
—Jake torn apart on the floor, his guts everywhere, my teeth sigillated upon his fucking bones—
He fucked Mom to her fifth orgasm.
—Eduardo with his face ripped off and spread upon a wall like a map—
Sixth orgasm.
Michael’s eyes torn out of their sockets, the holes caulked tight with his lenses.
Seventh. Eighth.
—Anthony, hogtied and forcefed handfuls of his belly-fat until he chokes on his own worthless blubber—
He leisurely played out fantasies of death, feeling the warmth of blood splattering and screams decaying to rattles then to silence.
Salma Hayek bellowed, spiking her hips back sharply. Her big arse and thick thighs rippled with jiggles of meat.
Her cunt sprayed out her ninth orgasm.
He was just ripping climaxes from her. She was a machine gun, with his cunt-slurping cock as the trigger. Her guts made incredibly lewd, loud shlicking and gurgling noises as they greedily devoured his erection.
His four friends just watched, pathetically tugging their loser cocks as their friend lunged on top of his mother, making her pussy shudder through orgasm and orgasm.
Thoughts of killing them drove him upward to orgasm. He hissed out ecstasy, whapping his hips against his mother’s cannonballing ass cheeks.
Then it began.
An itch.
It flared sharply behind his transverse perineal.
It built into a fireball of pleasure, maddening and sharp, while Alejandro grunted, and lunged into her twat.
“Nobody look away…”
All four boys froze, not even daring to breathe. He rooted his hips into her. GLURRRRPPP!
Nine inches, packed inside his mother. He felt her twat slithering and rippling and squeezing and gushing, their orgasms fusing into one.
“Watch the miracle of life!” he grunted, his balls flexing.
Between her juddering boobs, they watched Alejandro’s gigantic scrotum clench and wobble obscenely, pulling up between his legs.
Vast amounts of semen issued forth from his epididymis, pumping out along his vas deferens, then spewing out through his seminal vesicles into his urethra, which flexed inside his mother.
Ale screamed, his vision whiting out.
Every muscle in his lower body clenched as he fired the biggest cumshot of his life into his mother.
SPLUUUUURRRRTTTT! SPLOOOOOOOSHHHHHHH! GUSSSSSHHHHHHH
A wall of baby-batter splattered into her, overflowing her ripe, mature womb with a sludge of porridge-thick wrigglers.
Veins in Ale’s neck twitched as he creampied. His release was loud and lewd and disgusting. Even from the front, they could hear his cumshots spewing out into her thick-walled twat.
His semen was disgustingly thick, making glugging, churning sounds as his balls vented it out. It sounded like the oil he’d poured into the crankcase of Eduardo’s dad’s Ford Mustang.
Schlurp-glorp-glup-plooshhh! Bloorp-glug-glug-GLUUUCKK! Plap-plap-squorrshh!!!
Ale’s palms cracked on Salma’s ass. His fingers clutched, dragging sweat-gleaming trenches through cellulite-rifted flesh. He howled like a beast, hips thudding, drowning his mother’s pussy in torrential blasts of gooey, teenaged sperm.
He blew so much into her womb that she overflowed, and his load surged back out over his balls. Rivers of tar-thick slop went spewing out of their rutting hips, splattering in thick gelatinous clumps on the carpet.
Sklunchhh-blloorpp-glarrrgghhh… Glorp-FLOSHHH-plap-schlkhhh!
Ale’s spine twisted in ecstasy, his balls slithered and tightened and jerked, squeezing out thick splattery pulses of cum into a greedy, grasping sanctuary that was already far too full to hold them.
His cock disgorged six blasts inside his mother. Then six more. Then six more again.
Salma’s eyes rolled back into her head as cum boiled and churned through the orgasm-slackened structure of her adnexa uteri. Her pleasure-gutted mouth gibbered senseless violence. Her thick body shook as Alejandro hilted his huge cock inside her, still dumping shot after shot into her, as if she could never be spermed enough, never be pregnant enough.
GLOOP-gloop-GLORRRRK! skllllorrrrrrrt!! BLBBBPPPT-plssss-GLORCH-glurpffff!
Incredibly, he was still shooting. His prick slithered, carving a cock-shaped trench through an edifice of sludgy, porridge-thick genetic sludge. It was so dense it was more solid than liquid.
Finally, he drained himself. His skin felt like an empty bag—like he’d expelled his entire body mass through his cock into the sucking trench of his mother.
As the last of his cumshot gurgled out into her pulsating cunt, his cock throbbed in utterly sated bliss.
It remained inside her for several minutes. Near-silence prevailed, broken only by Salma’s smug whispers into the carpet.
Then Ale grasped the base of his cock-stalk, which jutted an inch from Salma’s ass.
He straightened his legs, yanking his thick, sloppy, cum-drooling cock out of her box.
SCHLUUUUURRRRPPPKKK!
His soft cock-hose made an obscene belch as it detached from his mother’s sluthole. The four boys reacted to the noise as if it had slapped them. It was stunningly loud, like a bubble bursting in nearly-dry cement.
A river of chunky-thick sperm sprayed out of her. Salma’s eyes slitted with a cat’s smug mastery of the game. She rocked her hips back and forth, alluring and agonizing, with his load streaming out from between her legs in argent-bright gouts.
* * *
Alejandro’s mind exploded with stars.
For a second, he thought the end had come. For his friends, for himself, for all creation.
Visions of some ancient Babylonian landscape exploded through his mind—behind it, hell burning in such mad and vivid clarity that it mixed with reality and could not be told apart. Impossible to say if this was past or future. Lightning flashes cracked inside his mind, illuminating wrack and ruin. A mind that was broken. Gleefully so…and by its own hand.
Then his sight blurred and slid. Off that moment, and onto the next.
He had visions of a beautiful young girl strapped to a chair, being tortured.
Several onlookers—dressed in antiquated clothes—watched as a man did something to her head, which was screwed into a metal cage. He couldn’t quite see what, though…everything was a confused, broken-up blur.
Between screams, the girl was saying something about statues, hidden in a mansion.
So you confess to the crime of witchcraft? a man asked.
He blinked. The scene vanished.
He was back in his body, and back in the present day.
Who am I?
Incredibly, he knew. He was Alejandro Pinault Hayek, son of Salma Valgarma Hayek Jiménez.
Four young, pimply faces stared at him in shock.
Who are these boys?
He knew that, too. They were his friends from Loyola High on Venice Boulevard.
He was not a demon. And they were not prey to be ripped apart, or smudges to be wiped away.
Ale felt horrible. Soul-sickened.
He had been taken for a fool.
A naked and enormously-thick woman of middle years lay fucked and drooling at his hips.
But although he was Ale and the four boys were his friends, she was not Salma Hayek.
She was something else.
I’m a human being, he thought stubbornly. A very bad one, but human nevertheless. Perhaps it’s not too late to be made whole…to be forgiven…to make right what is wrong…
Then the statue glared its baleful eyes out from the center of his mind.
He gasped, hell’s power tearing through his mind. Black gates seemed to swing open, pouring out dark light.
He could not stop it.
He would never be human again.
The four boys were watching him expectantly.
Jake. Eduardo. Michael. Anthony.
Hurry. If you have something to do or say to save your friends’ lives, say it right now. You’ll be back under its spell in seconds.
He shuddered, and spoke halting words while his mind collapsed into a bottomless pit.
“I would suggest…”
A wet cunt-fart sprayed out from his mother’s upraised ass. She hissed darkly, seeming disappointed.
“…that you run.”
Anthony nodded. Michael nodded. Eduardo and Jake just ran.
He rubbed fingers over his palpitating eyeballs, already bracing against a storm as four boys flung open the door and began sprinting naked across his front lawn.
Then Mom collapsed in front of him, her legs unhinging. Her massive dump-truck wobbled on the floor for nearly fifteen seconds. Her pussy lips lay fucked and rooted open, disgorging torrents of white.
His friends had left their clothes behind.
On another occasion, he would have laughed at the image of them streaking down Beverly Glen Boulevard. Hugging bay laurels and apache plumes for cover. Fat Anthony getting well and truly screwed. Improvising a story to tell their parents.
But instead, the image made him very, very angry.
Why did I let them leave? I should have killed them!
His lips curled back in a snarl. Blood-hot hate burst through his neocortex.
They deserved to die!
Did they?
No. They didn’t. Except…yes, they did.
Ale swayed, the room pitching off center.
Inside his mind, forces pulled and tore like cords. This was war, and he was the battlefield. He did not know who he was or where he was or what he’d done and what he hadn’t and—oh God what’s wrong with me, what’s wrong, what’s wrong…
He tasted blood.
No. He tasted spit.
He hungered for death. Why stop at four worthless boys? He imagined killing everyone.
Soon. Soon. Soon. Screaming in his blood was a voice not of this world. The future contains multitudes, but it does not contain now.
Another time. But until then, he would wait.
Salma groaned at his feet, a puddle of semen gushing out. She was panting—just a huge-jugged, big-assed war prize he had conquered with his cock, fucking her into submission. His own mother!
She twisted her head back. Her stare sang wild with desire beneath sweat-matted hair.
“I know why you did that, Mom,” he told her. “Why you fucked my friends in front of me. I perfectly grasp the point.”
She was trembling with arousal. And need.
Her every twitch and contraction was her begging to be fucked again.
Her huge breasts lay splayed out on each side of her like big tawny wings. They quivered in lurid, rippling tapestries. He saw a nipple daggering from her left tip, its point gathering light like a knife’s edge. The other nipple was buried under her body, throbbing unseen. Unless the floor had eyes, and at this point, who could be sure it did not?
“I’m the only one who can do it, right, Mom? I’m the only one capable, the only one allowed. I am the high priest of the ritual of life.”
His cock swelled and rose lke a crane, obscuring her face.
“Because you’re not my Mom,” he told the demon while slinging his hips on top of hers. “And you don’t want to fuck.”
He gripped it like a lance, and sank it down into her cunt. Two small explosions fountained out—one made of sound, the other of semen.
“You are Inanna, and you want the water of life.”
She squirmed, gripped, caught between his gripping hands and the cock pinning her to the floor.
“You want to be reborn!”
He fucked his cock into her faster and faster.
“And all I want…”
Schlurp-glorp-glup-plooshhh! Bloorp-glug-glug-GLUUUCKK! Plap-plap-squorrshh!!!
“…Is to give you that life, that rebirth.”
The demonic hunger took hold as he began to fuck.
He groped her, cupping her hips, pulling her twat onto his prick as he socketed it in her again and again. A wet cement churn of sound came from her cunt as he tore into her. His thick vein-gnarled shaft snaked its path down the gnarled, ridged walls of her pussy, its sheer size driving out most of his previous load.
That was fine.
The day was still early.
He’d just refill her with more cum. And more cum. And more cum again.
* * *
Several hours passed.
Alejandro and Salma continued to try to make a baby. The fucking and rutting went on apace, in every room of the house.
In a sense, it was no different to the past few weeks. But there was purpose behind it now. Intent.
He was impregnating his mother.
Time slipstreamed away. It seemed to Ale that he spent years with Salma’s thick hips grinding against him, with her cunt suctioning sperm from his balls—and when a clock told him that it was mid-afternoon, he did not believe it.
Mid-afternoon when? Next century?
He groaned, and sprayed out another load into her womb.
GLOOP-gloop-GLORRRRK! skllllorrrrrrrt!!
The demoness was hungry and demanding for Ale’s young, virile cum. Inanna had constructed a shadow-simulacrum of his mother to entrance him, woven from his dreams and nightmares.
But Salma was in her late middle-years, and her eggs were nearly spent. Her womb would not take easily, or well.
It would take a vast amount of energy to impregnate her. Energy that only Ale could provide.
Occasionally, Ale had emotions that felt odd to hold in his breast.
Like surprise, shame, and remorse.
Light drained from the sky outside, and he paused for reflection. Perhaps he was merely exhausted by the day’s seven or eight babymaking sessions, but he actually felt horrified.
He would have murdered his friends, had they stayed. He had no doubt of this.
I should apologize. Ludicrous, but what more could he do?
In the next room, he heard Salma Hayek’s thick-fleshed body stirring to life. She was prowling toward him, eager for more of his life-giving semen. He groaned, wishing he could sleep.
He hastily tapped out some texts in the few seconds he had left before she fell like an anvil on him.
>um, hey…so…
>i dont remember what happened this morning.
>its all a blur to me haha
>but…
>are you guys ok?
>just checking in
-ale
Jake replied seconds later.
> dude, did you roofie us?
> i dont remember shit.
> i feel fucking disgusting
> wtf did u even do
He watched writing dots appear and disappear seven times, before another message appeared.
> i dont know what u did to me while i was drugged, but fucking delete my number man. we’re not friends anymore.
Anthony’s response came next. It was even shorter.
> dont talk to me ever again.
The two other boys sent no reply at all.
* * *
A hundred and twenty-five years throws a lot of dust and dirt over history. Enough to obscure it completely sometimes.
In 1906, Bel Air had been a ranch called Rancho San Jose de Buenos Ayres, and Los Angeles had been a booming but small city of about a hundred thousand inhabitants.
But it had already spawned a red light district—south of Chinatown lay a sprawling labyrinth of (frequently interchangeable) smoking dens, gentlemen’s clubs, and brothels. The city’s underworld was steeped in Mexican brujeria, and a lively trade of lost, stolen, and fraudulent magical artifacts occurred. Occasionally, these artifacts would turn up in more upmarket locales, often causing strife for those who acquired them.
Like Maria Delgado y Cordobez.
In summer, a strange tale swept across LA. A housemaid had been arrested for murder at a peaceful country villa, twelve miles west of Chinatown. The housemaid was also said to be up to her eyeballs in witchcraft.
The story became increasingly scandalous as additional details bubbled to the surface.
Maria had been a Hispanic housemaid with some degree of Talmudic Jewish ancestry via a Converso forebear in the 16th century. According to the lady of the manor, Maria had attempted to seduce her husband, wishing to procure his seed for some diabolic pact made with the Devil. When this had failed, she had poisoned him.
At her trial, Maria confessed to the charge of seduction and murder, but not that of witchcraft. In any case, her testimony was extracted under torture, and cannot be relied upon.
(She was lucky—or perhaps unlucky—that she wasn’t simply killed at the scene of the crime by the arresting deputies. Los Angeles had frontier teeth back then—its first law was that of the LAPD, its second law was that of the lynch mob.)
Things get very confusing around here.
A self-described “witchfinder”—in actuality, a wandering Ossetian tinker—presented himself to the LA district court, offering to extract the truth from this clearly troubled (and no doubt demonically deranged) young Mexican-Jewish beauty.
This supposed witchfinder had no legal or religious training whatsoever. But he proved himself quite talented in other, more disquieting disciplines.
He tortured Maria for several days in the basement beneath the local district courthouse. He removed her fingers, then pulled out her teeth, then blinded her.
Even after he had a confession, he continued adjusting the girl’s anatomy out of sheer morbid curiosity. He had never studied a live witch before, he explained in the blood-splattered dungeon underneath the courtroom. He was very grateful that the city of Los Angeles had granted him this opportunity.
The list of things he supposedly did to the young woman is implausibly long. It culminates with him screwing her head into a vice, sawing away the back of her skull with a bandsaw, and placing several dozen endogeic Californian earthworms directly onto her exposed brain.
The slippery blue and pink worms burrowed into her meninges, eagerly devouring the soft matter within her skull.
Worms, the witchfinder explained over Maria’s throat-rending screams, would devour the demon haunting her mind, freeing the woman from her possession. (This was nearly eighty years before James V McConnell’s fascinating, if equally scientfically dubious, theories on memory transfer via planarian flatworms.)
It is quite unlikely that Maria Delgado y Cordobez was possessed by a demon.
Or that having worms eat her living brain would have gotten them out.
And even if they did, she died too quickly to tell the tale.
Her final words before her life convulsed away were ambiguous. But it seemed she had hidden a few magical totems inside the mansion…
These objects, however, were never found.
Salma Hayek
Salma shuddered as she remembered the tale the real estate agent had told her.
Maria Delgado y Cordobez was never far from her thoughts, particularly not these days.
Something’s not right at the mansion… Maybe that’s why I can’t go back…
She’d been away from her son and home for many, many weeks. Too long. Needlessly long. Principal photography had wrapped a week ago. Press and media obligations had kept her busy for a time in West Hollywood, but these too were now over.
Yet…she still hadn’t returned to Bel Air.
She dreaded the mansion, despite having no reason to dread it. It was spotlessly clean—the new maid Liliana was a veritable goddess with the mop and broom—and more importantly, it was spiritually clean. Deacon Calabrese had sanctified it with holy water, and when she’d found that strange thing some years previously, she’d passed it over to him.
Surely no spells or charms or bad juju remained in the mansion—if there had been any left to begin with. That poor housemaid had been demonically possessed a century ago! Dios mío!
But somehow, the Bel Air mansion just didn’t feel like a home anymore. Something had changed, very recently.
Maybe I should sell it.
But there was another problem that she couldn’t simply prorate and put on the market.
Her son Alejandro was spiritually sick—unnatural sexual perversions were visibly poisoning him. His stare seemed to crawl on her breasts and buttocks every time he thought she couldn’t see. And then there was the thing he’d said in the car—about how she was a sexy piece of ass, or something.
She shuddered at the thought, replaying his tone over and over.
His obvious sexual desire for her body made her feel repulsed…if hot, if squirmy, if wet sometimes. She felt strange emotions gaining force in her chest. She worried that repulsion might turn into something else if she examined it closely.
She was desperately angry with him. His sexual thoughts had infected hers.
A home that was not a home. A son that was not a son. Small wonder she stayed away.
Luckily, West Hollywood was full of distractions.
Parties and afterparties and a day that started so late that it barely had time to exist before the next night’s debauchery began.
Last night’s soiree with the Young Hollywood reporter had gone on late into the early hours. She had drunk six piña coladas and passed out in someone’s backseat. From the depths of drunkenness she remembered the taste of the man’s neck as she’d kissed him. Her mouth and tongue had then slid south. Very far south.
She couldn’t recall what she’d done. It blurred into the rest of the night’s debauchery, and that of previous nights.
Sucking men off in parking lots. Rough hairy hands hitching up her dress, and fucking her from behind—the way she liked it. Getting thrust face-first into a wall as bull-hung men planted themselves deep in her body—deeper than her husband had ever gone.
Alejandro still thought his mother was a prude.
If only he knew the truth…
I feel no shame. None. Many men had touched her. Her only regret afterward was that they so often lacked the courage to take it any further.
I’m not doing anything wrong, she thought. It’s different when women do it. We’re…passive. We let men do it to us. It is their will, their choice, their sin. This was a script she had used for decades. But now, it had started to fail.
Her fantasies had taken a dark, strange turn.
It seemed she must be committing a sin, to think these thoughts…which all bent in one direction, and upon one person…
She kept spacing out, waking with her hands buried in her crotch. Her head would suddenly seem to plunge into a place with different air—much hotter or colder, and her blood would screech like a banshee in heat. Often, she felt hands touching her. Otherworldly hands that did not exist, but were somehow still real enough.
Real enough that she panted and quivered and dripped…
Lately, the presence had started whispering in her ear.
And there it was. Again.
Salma…
She moaned, skin goosepimpling under the hot sun. Someone else’s breath was pooling hot on her neck.
Oh God…anything but this! She felt dirty. Unclean.
Her olive-brown skin stirred as fingers seemed to touch her with eviscerative intimacy.
“Please go…” she murmured, shuddering from groping hands that she could not see.
“Cruensseasrjit pestis cruento invisuu!” a familiar male voice whispered in her ear.
Her cunt began moistening, going hot and drippy while phantom fingers sought out pressure points in her skin. Starting at her neck, then wandering a forbidden path down her back. Acupuncture from the next world.
Salma shuddered, crossed and uncrossed her legs, and finally the feeling passed.
She’d dismissed these episodes as stress-related.
Then the shoot had ended, and they’d worsened. She’d found other excuses. Too much partying and drinking and too many men. Worry about her awful, depraved son, who was spiraling ever-deeper despite her best efforts to raise a good Catholic boy.
She bit her lip. I think I have a demon too.
Alejandro’s sexual thoughts were the result of possession, and his demon had found a doorway into her, as well.
His fault, his fault, all his fault.
Even though the whispering and groping had stopped, she felt defiled. Polluted.
Luckily, she was a Catholic, and had a way to cleanse herself.
Confession.
* * *
Salma’s pumps rang out in the vastness of Saint Paul the Apostle Parish.
She wore a stark black-netted Maticevski dress of enormous bulk. Her hems ballooned out, bobbing like a bell of funeral-sharp black. Her surplice neckline bulged with her great breasts, which wobbled as she strode down the pews.
She swept imperiously along the empty aisle of the church, heading toward the processional cross.
Here, liturgical objects were polished to a gilded sheen.
The ambo, the altar, the tabernacle. The monstrance, the thurible, the chalice.
She had called ahead, asking to make a confession.
It was after hours, but Deacon Calabrese agreed to unlock the parish just for her.
He’d been her confessor for many years, listening to any number of her sins without judgment or reproach.
He was so kind. So caring and compassionate. Not disgusting and dirt-minded, like other men.
(Like her son.)
And he had helped her in more material ways.
When she’d mentioned her concerns that the Bel Air mansion might be haunted due to its tragic history, he’d sanctified it.
And when she’d discovered an odd pagan artifact buried in the lawn—a little keepsake from the witch?—he’d gladly taken it off her hands.
* * *
Her beautiful veiled face swept past the empty, silent pews as she approached the confession box.
She saw Deacon Calabrese’s white cassock flowing out beneath the confessor’s side.
Waiting, as he always was.
She unlatched the wooden door, and crawled into the tiny, dark space. The largeness of her ass meant she barely fit.
“Dee-con…” she whispered against the barrier.
“Salma…” Such a deep, resonant voice. She loved that in a man.
“I haff had such a couple of weeks, Deacon. There is so much I need to tell you…”
“…Mmmm?”
She confessed the…mistakes she’d made while intoxicated.
Three or four major sins. A few dozen minor ones.
“Describe them all.” A slight tremor jagged through his voice, like a stylus wavering upon wax. “It is important that I understand the particulars of your sins.”
So she described them, hesitating and guessing around the times alcohol had corrupted her memory. It took fifteen minutes, pouring out the details in the thick, shadow-painted confession box. His breath roughened as he listened.
“…and I scrubbed the dress afterward, so there wouldn’t be stains on it while feelming. Anyway, that ees the end. But there ees more…I am still having these…dreams…!”
His cassock rustled as she shifted position. “More sexual fantasies?”
“Yes. They are happening in the day, as well as when I sleep. I feel hands touching my breasts. Sometimes, a man’s…organ enters me. Sometimes eet completes the act of love. But there is no one there, Dee-con!”
“You have an incubus…” he sighed.
“¿Qué?”
“A male demon, Salma. Attached to you. Oh, my poor child…I am sorry. It comes from living in that house, I’m sure. Can you date these sexual episodes to a known event?”
“No.” She shook her head.
“Have you found any odd books or artifacts that might be from the building’s past—aside from the one you gave me, when you moved in?”
“No.”
Then he paused, considering.
“Salma…has your son found anything?”
“Hmm…well…”
She didn’t know.
“Perhaps you should be watching him more closely,” Deacon Calabrese observed. “You spoil him, as I’ve said. I want to see him back at church. I will discipline him, if you cannot. But we wander, Salma, from your confession. Do you enjoy it, being penetrated by the incubus?”
Easy to know, hard to say.
“It feels…bien,” she said. “I love it when the demon comes. I hear him whispering in my ear as he…breeds me.”
He sighed. “Salma…sexual demons often take the form of someone we know. Someone we desire. Does the incubus speak in a familiar voice?”
She shuddered. Oh, to not answer! How guilty the truth made her!
But she had to confess, or she would not be forgiven.
And then it began again. Right there in the confession box!
Energy gathered in the air, behind her kneeling body. She felt a weight start gathering on her lower back, as if water was pooling, but then it became hot and viscous and alive.
She did not look behind. She knew she would see nobody.
She hissed as she felt a phantom penis probing for her cunt, which moistened in sexual anticipation.
“Salma?” Deacon Calabrese asked from across the divide. “You have gone quiet.”
“Oh, dame pan y dime tonta…” She was choking as it slid inside her body. “Dee-con…please don’t judge me…”
“It stays in this confession box and God’s ear.” Deacon Calabrese hissed, shameless in his need to know.
But she supposed he had every right to. He was her priest…
“He speaks with a voice I know…”
“Tell me who!”
Then the weight rose to her shoulder, and the whispering started in her ear—coiling inward, as if through a nautilus shell.
“Mother…” Alejandro’s voice rasped in a voice of smoking rust.
* * *
She received her absolution then and stood outside the church. Chill winds seemed to howl through her. Her body was twisted by spasms as she gazed into the street.
I should go home.
Or maybe not. She could easily call Alejandro and say she’d be away for another day or week or year. He wouldn’t care. More time to play disgusting videogames, to watch brain-rotting movies, to stroke his big teenaged—
She squeezed her eyes closed, shutting off the thought like it was polluted water.
Could the maid have found another artifact?
But the dreams had started before Liliana had been hired at the mansion.
She pursed her lips. There was only one option.
If she hadn’t found anything odd, that left only Alejandro.
* * *
She was in the empty parking lot when her phone rang.
“Hola?”
“Mrs Hayek? Um…hey. It’s Eduardo.”
She frowned, trying to pin the name to a face. “Eduardo…?”
“Ale’s friend. I just wanted you to know something…there’s something bad going on at your mansion…”
Eduardo had an astonishing tale to tell.
“…He’s trashed the mansion. All your carpeting’s ruined, your furniture’s smashed…”
“You are joke-eeng!” Tears filled her eyes. “I was there just a few days ago! It vas clean! We haff a maid!”
Eduardo sounded confused. “It didn’t look clean to me, ma’am. I hardly remember anything, and neither do the other three guys he had over. I honestly think I was drugged with something. Like I inhaled something second-hand.”
“Or first hand,” Salma said acidly. She had never been overly fond of Ale’s friends.
“It’s worse than just drugs, Mrs Hayek. You need to look at what he’s doing. It’s…sick. Demonic.”
“Dee-monic?” Salma shrieked. Oh God, this had to be a sick practical joke her son’s friends had concocted. “Why do you say dee-monic?”
“He found this freaky statue in your garage,” Eduardo said. “Anthony’s dad is a professor of archaeology. He thinks it’s some kind of Babylonian fertility goddess, or something.”
“Whaaat?” Salma clutched her phone nearly hard enough to crack the glass.
“He says he found it buried in the lawn or something.”
Then she knew.
Salma had heard enough. Her lust-blind idiot of a son had found one of the witch’s items, and triggered something best left alone.
“I swear, Mrs Hayek, I didn’t do anything…”
She hung up on Eduardo, lunged for her Acura, flung herself behind the wheel, and jammed the stick into DRIVE.
Her eyes slitted. Calabrese had proven right, as usual. She had been far too lenient on her son.
An iron fist in a velvet glove did not work. Now he gets an iron fist in an iron glove.
* * *
It was late afternoon.
Alejandro drowsed on a couch, exhausted from a day of frenetic babymaking.
When Mom’s Acura ZDX screeched to a halt in the driveway, he barely heard it.
Hell was close. He felt the infernal realm pressing in through the roof and through the floor and radiating from every wall. He heard the pulse of the underworld chanting through the mansion’s structural beams, echoing in its empty spaces.
The mansion was eerily thinning around him, as though it was an illusory fog, with a harsh sun steadily blasting through it.
Sometimes when he stared at the walls they visibly decayed before his eyes, falling away to reveal a palpitating and quivering substance beneath.
Like skin.
Horrific, infected skin.
Blood-red worms were rising in a squirming tide from the drains, boiling through in their hundreds. The kitchen sink. The downstairs shower. The upstairs shower. Nowhere was safe. Even the upstairs bathtub was writhing with worms—which was ludicrous for the extra reason that the water was shut off to that room. How had they even gotten inside the pipes?
Yellow-banded spiders skittered across the walls. Hundreds of them, it seemed.
Earlier, between rutting sessions in the demon Inanna’s pussy, he had watched ants milling in a circle on the cracked cement outside.
But then it had dissolved before his eyes, becoming not a circle but the Mušḫuššu symbol.
The sigil of the goddess Inanna.
He rubbed his temples, hearing ambiguous noises—halfway between pain-fueled screaming and the howl of metal wrenched asunder. He couldn’t tell if the sounds were coming from inside the walls, or inside his head.
I almost became a murderer, he thought, watching the walls swell and contract.
Next time, I will simply… become. People will die. Do I care?
He plumbed his thoughts: found no horror, but also no joy. There was just acceptance. The future was so inevitable it may as well have already happened.
Next time…Death. He shrugged. So be it. What choice is there, for the killer or the killed?
But there wasn’t just death, there was life. Soon he would be the author of that as well. This, too, was written in the future’s great and dark book.
He heard the spirit of Inanna manifest close by. Time to fuck, boy. Time to make life.
Ale smiled a bit, reaching down to jerk his cock back into action.
“Pretaanluxis,” she hissed, stalking to his side. Her hair was loose, and brocading her beautiful, heartless face like curtains.
A car door was flung open, a million miles away.
Alejandro shut his eyes, feeling a lush, huge-breasted, heavy-hipped body sweep across his crotch, straddling him. His cock began to rise, and he flicked it down with a hand, notching his glans against her rampant pubis.
He heard the garage open on its roller doors, and he heard the shouts begin.
“¡Ale! Eres la leche!”
“Whatever…” he muttered, not even caring who was screaming far, far away. Someone this darkly-ascended boy might have feared once. Now? He was amazed he could even hear them.
The demon swung her cunt into position, found the angle, then slid down.
She gasped, riding his cock down to the base of her flanged petals. A sodden liquid heat pooled across his genitals as her labia majora pressed against his pubic bone.
Crushingly strong hands clutched his shoulders with wrenching force. He felt her breath pant on his chest, and her gigantic tits flopping onto his chest.
“She’s not my real mom,” Ale said to the woman atop him. “She’s not you.”
The demon—his mother’s stolen flesh, Inanna’s entombed soul—began riding up and down. She hissed in valedictory triumph.
“I love you,” he murmured tonelessly. “I love you so much.”
He stared up, enraptured. His adoration to his queen was…endless.
“Cruensseasrjit pestis cruento maravita!” the demon cawed down at him, lunging and fucking him cowgirl-style. From the tremors of her haunches, she was already rising toward an orgasm.
She tossed her beautiful raven-black hair over her shoulder, and prepared to scream in climax.
…But then her fast-churning hips froze, for another reason entirely.
Fear crashed across her face.
“Rud’minuox praaNsilenux shatruex-acerbus!” She screeched down at Ale. “Serva vitam meam!”
Ale screwed up his face, his hips flexing in orgasm. His own ejaculation had snuck up on him.
“What do you mean? Save you, how? UGH! CUMMING!”
“Serva vitam meam! SERVA VITAM MEAM!”
“What? UGH! UGH! UGH!”
SMASH
It came from the garage.
And then he understood.
No! The statue!
The fracture-sound landed at the same moment as his orgasm. The two sounds fused into one. Sudden. Overwhelming. It sang like a bell, shattered like a bomb.
A voice unrecognizable as his own came fireballing out of his lungs. Inanna, shrieking through him.
The demon straddling his hips exploded.
Exploded was not le mot juste, but Ale knew no word that came closer. She blew to pieces around his cock, leaving it waving emptily in the air. Her body evaporated in a violent spray of shrapnel, dissolving into an expanding sphere of gas that scorched like wind across him.
He blinked, watching his cock bounce and spurt out cum, slathered in squirt from a cunt that was no longer there.
SPLAT! SPLAT! SPLAT!
He uselessly emptied his balls across the floor, feeling his consciousness sag away rottenly. He felt like he fell, his stomach plunging, and for a moment he was spiraling through a realm impossible. Horrific. Glorious. A past or future unimaginable. Inanna, yearning to break her chain. Serva vitam meam.
Then he came away, shuddering and moaning on his back.
Something awful had just happened.
The demon was gone. Just…gone.
He shivered with cold, his post-orgasmic cock softening. Something integral and foundational had been ripped away. Come back. I love you.
Without you, I am lost.
He listened for some sound of Inanna. Some sign she was still there, still alive.
But the silence yielded nothing. The silent mansion yielded nothing. Pulling on a pair of stained boxers, he staggered out to the garage to see the source of the smashing noise.
For all the good it would do. He already knew exactly what had happened.
* * *
His mother stood in the garage, with a baseball bat in her hand.
Salma was dressed to kill—Maticevski, radiantly beautiful and black as vengeance. Her hair boiled like black smoke from her skull, streaming down her back.
She panted, her knuckles clenching and unclenching on the bat’s aluminium shaft. She was not winding up. The death-stroke had already been dealt.
She’d smashed the statue.
Between her legs lay a pulverised mound of stone. The wreckage of a goddess fanned out in a spray across the garage.
Ale was horrified by it. He saw half a face broken off, its half a mouth screaming on the floor. A dismembered hand was sheared off beside it. A titanic black breast had split away from the torso, lazily rocking back and forth on its rounded surface. Other, less identifiable chunks of the statue lay in random disarray. Not a single piece larger than a grapefruit remained. The bat had simply unmade the statue. Had swept right through it, as though it was as insubstantial as Inanna’s own body had ultimately proved itself to be.
The statue was gone.
She was gone.
He was gone.
“Mom…no…” he whispered. “You shouldn’t have…”
Then Salma spun to face him, moving with such lethal speed that he flinched.
She raised the bat, as if preparing to smash him to pieces, too.
“ALE!” she screamed. “WHAT HAFF YOU DONE?”
Her face quivered in anger…and in glee. Whatever this was, it was her son’s doing. Her wicked, wicked son.
He had failed her. He had become a disappointment.
Ale wilted before the fury of her smile. He felt his body fall into a familiar shrinking posture.
“I’m sorry…I’m sorry…”
He was crying now. Crying helplessly. Tears flash-flooded down his dry skin.
“I…I didn’t mean it!”
“Be silent. I vill deal with you soon.” She shoved him aside, and imperiously swept past him—a capital ship bedecked in Maticevski, bouqueted in Sisley Paris Phyto and Yves Saint Laurent. Then she stormed inside, flinging shut the door behind her.
He heard her footsteps recede into the house.
I wonder…
Alejandro watched tears go plop on the garage floor, wetting the broken idol.
…if the illusion is still active…if she won’t be able to see what’s happening…
Seconds later, a scream of purest terror answered that.
* * *
Cleaning the mansion took two weeks.
Salma Hayek hired a cleaning company at phenomenal expense. When half of the workers threatened to quit after seeing the state of the place, she wrote each of them $10k checks.
“Make it clean,” she snarled, scrawling her signature. “I don’t care what you haff to do!”
Alejandro was forced to toil and sweat along with the men, under his Mom’s strict, exacting eye.
She told the workers to assign him the hardest, dirtiest, and most degrading tasks.
This was his fault. This was his punishment.
“I rue having a son,” she whispered, quivering with fury. “I weesh I could look at you and see just another cleaning worker! I weesh that is what you were, Ale!”
The floor was deep-cleaned and treated. The walls were repainted. Every surface was splattered with semen, saliva, female ejaculate, and a host of other bodily fluids. Hundreds of square feet of carpet had to be ripped out by the staples and replaced. There were wooden floorboards that needed sanding and refinishing, to disguise the tracks female fingernails had scraped in the wood. You could almost reverse-engineer what position the succubus had been fucked in, from the patterns the nails had etched. Pest exterminators were contracted to kill the spiders and flies. Men in gloves and respirators retrieved several decaying animal skeletons from behind the fridge, behind the vanity cabinet, in the attic, and in the crawlspace. Cats. Dogs. Birds.
If any of the men noticed anything unusual—that the scratches in the wood seemed to have been made by hands with six or seven fingers, that the rotting skeletons were occasionally unidentifiable—they gave no sign.
Perhaps a blind eye was among the services Salma had paid for.
In any event, everything overtly paranormal had disappeared with Inanna herself.
A door to hell had begun to drift open…but the statue’s destruction had slammed it shut.
Alejandro watched in awe as a contractor in a PVC hazmat suit used an industrial plunger to unclog the drains of thousands of rotting worms. They had to be scooped into the bags with a shovel. Their bodies had dissolved down to a reeking black muck that clung to fingers and left a smell on your skin through nitrile gloves. How they’d gotten into the plumbing in such numbers was a mystery that, again, went unquestioned by the workers.
Then came a fresh coat of paint, and a new layer of wallpaper. Curtains and blinds were torn down to let in outside light.
A very Catholic paint job, a very Catholic lighting scheme. No secrets were allowed in Salma’s home. Just God’s cleansing light, the scorching fire of revelation.
Nearly half a ton of furniture—much of it antique—was judged to be damaged beyond repair, and had to be thrown away.
Mom wants me on that pile, Ale thought ruefully, watching the workers sling sex-shattered wreckage into the back of a yellow-painted dumpster. She wishes she could throw me out.
The demon had made him powerful. A prince of hell. Someone who could kill, who could fuck one of the most beautiful and gorgeous women into a string of howling orgasms. A spoiled Satanic playboy who could bend every rule that would bend, break every rule that would break.
But the power had never been his. He had lost everything, at the moment Mom had broken the statue.
Judgment day had come early to Salma Hayek’s Bel Air mansion.
For the righteous, salvation. For the sinners, judgment and hellfire.
* * *
Alejandro skulked around the refurbished mansion—sad, diminished, and crestfallen. A tiny, lonely figure, trying to avoid his mother and her wrath.
Salma refused to discuss the strange incident with her son.
When she spoke to him, it was in the form of a lecture, an order, or a scold. She didn’t ask what he’d done. She didn’t ask why he’d done it. She didn’t ask what he thought, what he felt, what he wanted. The broken-apart statue was slung in the dumpster with the rest of the trash.
And that was the end of it, until he heard her grunting and gasping in pain one night.
“Mom!” he said, standing outside her bedroom. “What’s wrong?”
She was not on her bed, and appeared to be in the bathroom.
“Call an am-boo-lance!” she screamed in a voice of rags and shards.
He heard a toilet flush.
The ambulance was called, but after it arrived, Salma stated she did not need it.
As the confused EMT’s taillights disappeared onto Beverly Glen Boulevard, she latched a claw of a hand onto Ale’s shoulder. Her face was bloodless, lined, but triumphant.
“I have mees-carried…” she spat, her eyes full of hate. “A life was in me. It was growing. But now it is dead. Do you hear me? Dead!”
“Oh.” He felt a wave of sickness wash over him, as he remembered the sound of the toilet. “Okay.”
My child. She murdered my child.
* * *
Salma was brutally strict with Ale now. An unyielding wall of eyeliner and mascara.
He was allowed no TV, no social media, no friends over at the mansion—not that he had friends now, after that. (He suspected that Jake or Eduardo had ratted him out to his mother, but there was no way to be sure—oh, fuck, why had he shown them the statue?)
He was force-marched back onto altar boy duty, under Deacon Calabrese’s instruction. Resentfully tugging on a red cassock, a white surplice, a body-length alb, belting up with a cincture. Dressing in musty old altar boy clothes that he hadn’t worn in years, and had expected to never wear again.
I hate her… he thought, staring at his mother after another scold-session. I hate her…I hate her…
But Ale hated Salma the way Gordon Ramsay hates food, the way Simon Cowell hates singing.
Whatever you call that emotion, it sure as fuck isn’t indifference.
I hate her…I hate her… He watched her big ass seesaw back and forth, and began to grow hard. I love her…I love her…I love her. He had lost everything, His lover, his powers, his unborn baby. But there was one thing she hadn’t taken.
His obsession with her.
* * *
One month later…
Alejandro panted at her bedroom door.
Blurk…shluck…blorp… His tightly-gripping fist made wet, meaty, schlorping sounds as it squelched on his cock.
He stared at Mom as she sprawled massively on the bed, wriggling her pillar-thick ass into a pair of black lace panties. He sucked in air. His prick quivered, pulsing a jet of precum.
She released the elastic, and the panties went snap over the contours of her buttocks and hips.
Then she reached for her bra.
“Uhh…Mom!” His balls heaved, quivering in pungent knots at the base of his tight-gripping fist. It had been a long time since he’d bathed—what was the point?—and his crotch stank ferociously.
Mom did not sing anymore as she brushed her hair. She seemed to want a house and a life devoid of any material pleasures at all, no matter how innocent.
She dressed with military discipline, stuffing, wedging, and cantilevering her overwhelming tits and ass into undercarriage with the relentless tempo of a US Marine preparing his kit for inspection.
Her colossal tit-cannons wobbled as she scooped them up, and dragged a stripe of antiperspirant across the sweaty undersides.
Ale’s heart almost stopped as her nipples slid into view.
Salma’s tits had become grotesquely obese. They hung like massive soccer balls of meat from her chest—so disgustingly big and heavy that she visibly grunted and strained to lift them. They squished and ballooned enormously around her arms as she hefted them into position, matching their obscene bulks to the cups.
Ale moaned softly, his cock quivering. I almost made a baby with her! Obscene wet squelches spat from his hand as his prick fucked a wet path down his palm.
Gasping, he pounded his hips against the base of his fist, watching his wet cock go slurping in and out. Droplets of precum sprayed and flew.
Once, he’d merely dreamed of shoving his cock between Mom’s immense tits.
Now it was worse. He remembered!
Whatever fantasy you could have about Salma Hayek was exacerbated into raw, scalding torture for Ale, because odds were, he’d actually done it. He knew what it meant to splay his beautiful mom open like a cut of dripping meat, burying himself between her legs, pounding out loads inside her quivering cunt. All night he tossed and turned, dreams of her pneumatic body convulsing him to orgasm again and again. All because he knew. He knew!
He mourned and missed Inanna. I was so stupid. Should have known she’d find it eventually. I could have hidden it…could have put it somewhere where she’d never find it.
Open-mouthed, he cranked himself off to her sweat-glistening tit cannons. He deathgripped his erection, knuckles whitening as he tugged himself off.
Salma scooped and dropped gallons of jiggling fuckflesh into her Gore-Tex reinforced maternity bra.
SPLOTCH! KLAPP!
They bounced massively, almost bursting the bra straps. His breath sharpened then broke, like a coiling wave.
His cock throbbed at full erection, slopping strands of precum over the floor. Gripping, he pumped his shaft. Warm fluid bubbled out of his cockhole.
“Oooooh!” Ale buried fat inches of his fat pulsating cock deep inside his fists.
A gut-wrenching orgasm gushed out of him.
His balls corkscrewed up wetly under his fist, thumping noisily and rhythmically with cremasteric contractions.
SPLORG! SPLIRT! SPLURG! SPLURT! SPLORG! SPLURG!
His cock jerked, belching out sperm in thick, splattery cords of filth. As he fired and fired, his knees clacked together, threatening to unhinge and spill him to the wooden floorboards.
He had come so close…so close!
Inside, Salma was zipping up her dress.
“Ale!” She presumed he was lying sullenly in his bedroom, and shouted with a loudness that made him flinch. “Get dressed in your vestimenta de monaguillo! We are going to church!”
Church. On a fucking Wednesday.
He trembled in fury, watching his rank sperm steam as it oozed down her door.
The water of life. How Enki revived Inanna in the underworld.
He laughed at the idea. His cock burped, spitting a final clot onto the floor.
Accept death, Inanna. At least it’s better than what I’ve got.
* * *
Ale’s balls were having a productive morning.
At dawn, a wet dream had pounded through him like a summer storm. He had them every night now.
In his dream, his mother was spread before him, splaying her thick, maternal haunches before his face on a family couch that had already been thrown out—hips canted and inviting, her ass-cleft pouring down its curves into a center-line of shadow. Ale—fully aware that he was dreaming—shoved his entire head into her musky crack. He’d hunted out her asshole with his tongue, then stuck it further and deeper up her hot, thick shit-chute. Seemingly ten feet deep.
Then he’d woken. Mind screaming, hips jackhammering blindly.
He’d felt his cock frantically bounce and thrash, plastering torso-length ribbons of cum along the underside of his bedsheets.
He’d fallen asleep with his heart pounding, slowly drifting away into a dreamlike landscape, beneath a sky rifted with stabs of purple-blue lightning. He wandered lost, hearing his mother’s voice cry out of the rocks.
You want me, you want me, you want me, don’t you, you little brat. You want me and you want me but you’ll never have me. Your child is dead and your statue is dead and your goddess is dead.
At seven, he’d woken with a honking erection that simply would not go down. He’d desperately jerked himself off, exploding in seconds.
Then he’d drowsed amidst his sperm-splattered bedsheets until Mom’s alarm had scorched through his mind like a hot knife. The sound brought his cock swelling back to life. Hurry! The thick slab of teenaged cockflesh seemed to say beneath tented bedsheets. You’ll miss the Salma Show!
I won’t watch mom dress, he thought, swallowing bitter saliva. I’m quitting. Right now. This is sick and disgusting and wrong and I AM STOPPING RIGHT NOW.
A noble speech.
One he’d rehearsed many times, while tiptoeing to her door. Usually his hand was already in his pants before the word sick.
The sanctimonious speech had become part of the Salma Show. The intro credits. Like a no animals were harmed in the making of this film message and then a hard-cut cutting to the world’s bloodiest slaughterhouse.
His flabby, grimy scrotum began shaking and tightening up against his knuckles. He felt his ass squeeze inward as he ejaculated.
* * *
After the Salma Show concluded, Alejandro returned to his bedroom.
He lay in bed, shaking and cold. His altar boy clothes lay piled at the foot of the bed. His wrinkled, flaccid cock and saggy smelly scrotum hung like fruit from his crotch, greasy with sweat and musk.
Red cassock, white surplice, body-length alb belted with a cincture. Musty old altar attire that he hadn’t worn in years, and had expected to never wear again.
He stared at them in great loathing, unwilling to put them on.
It’s not even Sunday. Deacon Calabrese had a pretty good grift going on. Get local boys to clean the church for free after hours.
Someone knocked on the door.
Someone, who could only be that one.
“One second!” He cursed, wishing he’d at least started to dress. He wiped cum-plastered hands on his sheets. They left greasy smears.
Click The door swung open.
Salma stepped into her son’s bedroom, throwing an imposing shadow over his bed.
She was as physically overwhelming as ever. Her enormous balloon-sized knockers preceded her into the room, wobbling in vast promontories from her chest. The weight of her chest caused her bra straps to dig deep gulches into her shoulders. Alejandro inwardly moaned, longing to bury his head between her ginormous titties.
She glared down at him, standing just inside the doorway. She laid hands on her hips. Her mouth was a single sharp line.
“Explain yourself.”
Despite masturbating mere seconds ago, Mom’s body—gigantic tits, ass so wide it blocked the doorway—caused his much-abused cock to engorge desperately.
“Mom, I haven’t done anything!”
Ale’s mind raced, trying to think of some way to covertly disguise the rising bulge in his bedsheets.
“¿Quién la cagó?” She waved a loose tissue. “I found this on the floor, Ale! It is wet!”
Oh God. The tissue must have fallen from his hand as he’d cleaned up the mess.
He fell into the whimpering, wheedling tones that were now his default register. “I don’t know where that came from, Mom. It could be—”
She stepped forward, leaned over him, and slapped his face.
WHAP!
“Dees-gusting brat!” Her voice shook. “I know what you do at my door, Ale. I have known for a long time! Have you no shame?”
Her colossal baby feeders hung downward over his bed. Then she stood upright, making them wobble.
Then she sniffed the air, and recoiled, assaulted by the vile smell of Alejandro’s cum. The air almost boiled with it.
She stared at the wastebin, which was buried in a mountain of yellow-splattered tissues. Stared at the countless stains all over his bedsheets, his clothes, the carpet.
Her jaw tautened in fury. “Why are you like this? Why are you such a ree-volting little boy? I thought the statues held a demon. But maybe the demon is you.”
Ale cast his eyes down. He wanted to simply not exist. It was so harmless, what he was doing! So goddamn harmless!
Statues, he thought. She said statues.
The thing he’d dug out of the soil…the thing she’d smashed…it was not the only one.
“Sorry, Mom…” His gaze rose to trace the overflow of breast flesh spilling over her cups…then quickly dropped.
His cock jerked and twitched, painfully engorged.
She pounced on his sorry. Glee distorted her arrogant, sexy face.
“I don’t care if you are sorry.” She wagged a finger, smug and self-righteous as she scolded. Sanctimony: her natural register. “You have sexual perversion rotting your mind, boy. En casa de herrero, cuchillo de palo! You have always been dee-formed, Ale! When you were six, you…”
And then she was off again, itemizing his failures. Little lies and thefts and indulgences.
She had a flawless memory. Either that, or she was making up stories. Ale couldn’t remember any of the events she described happening.
I hurt no-one. Bitch. He clenched his teeth in rage as she went on and on, all the while her vast tits quivered infuriatingly. Enragingly. I could have. I could have killed. But I was good! And what did it get me?
Her face was almost purple with fury. Then she saw something that made her explode.
“Ale…what ees that?”
Her sharp eyes were now fixed on the massive bulge throbbing beneath his bedsheets.
He had nowhere to run as she leaned over him, and grasped her slender, graceful fingers over the lump.
As her fingers folded over his erection, it pulsed in her hand. She pulled away as if scalded by it.
She screamed, and hit him again.
“No tener vela en este entierro! You are a devil, Ale! A devil! I weesh you had never been born!”
I wish the same. He fantasized about pulling out a second load over her bitching face. Spewing porridge-thick clumps of cum into her tanned cleavage. Dumping the last few straggling spurts across her nose. This life is already hell!
Salma exhaled. She had finished.
“Do we understand each other, brat?”
He was slow in responding, so she raised her hand again. It caught the sun like a guillotine blade.
“Yes…Mom.” Vengefully imagining her naked. Beautiful mature flesh. Prime meat, crawling on all fours, to be defiled and polluted and bred.
“Then we are fee-neeshed,” she hissed, and he flinched from her shadow. “Get dressed. Now!”
She turned, and strutted out of his room. Head high. Back erect.
Ale moaned, groping his prick through his bedsheets, eyes glued to her thick bouncing ass.
Quivering with rage and lust, he shut the door and attacked his cock with both hands. Loud schlurpping sounds filled the stale air as he desperately knuckled off a second load.
“Fucking haaaaate her….”
He groaned as he came yet again.
SPLURG! SPLURT! SPLUTT!
Thick ropes erupted from his cock, looping across his stomach, his chest, his hand.
His breath came in short, frantic gasps as he expelled disgusting amounts of cum. Moaning, he pulled his cock out of his fist, his twitching cock slipping from his sperm-slathered fingers with a wet squelch.
He started crying. Sobbing.
Oh God, I deserve to suffer like this.
* * *
He had only one option left.
Statues, she’d said. He already suspected that the thing in the ground was not the only strange thing that the mansion had ever coughed up. Now, he had confirmation.
Mom had found another one.
But what did she do with it?
The first option: she’d wrecked it. In this case, he was out of luck.
The second option: she’d given it to the church.
In this case, it might still be there.
As soon as Alejandro stepped inside the church, he forgot all about his troubles.
With his cassock chafing his neck, he picked up a pushbroom and started to clean, while Mom strode toward the apse and altar. He watched her leave with acute longing.
Then he stopped sweeping.
He knew that her whispered “confessions” with Deacon Calabrese could take an hour or more. This had always seemed a ridiculous length of time just to recount a few sins. But it was not long in the grand scheme of things. Could he search the entire church in that time?
Carrying the broom around—it made a useful prop and cover story, in case anyone asked what he was doing—he began quartering the vast space.
He started from the crossing, fanning outward in four directions.
Narthex. Nave. Left and right chapel. He peered inside rooms, cracked open doors, opened latches.
Nothing.
The high-vaulted roof echoed his footsteps back at him, seeming to mock him. The second-floor choirs rose over him like condemning wings.
Please… he felt sweat crawl down his neck, stinging his back. It has to be here.
But it didn’t have to be here. That was the problem.
Time was flying away as he crossed and recrossed his footsteps. A slow glissando of panic started to build in his mind, until…
He reached the left transept.
Then he felt strangely calm.
How could you worry, with such a soothing sound in your ear?
A voice or braided chain of voices began calling to him, harmonizing mellifluously.
Time became glacial and strange as he opened a heavy teak door marked STORAGE.
Ale’s heartbeat pounded in his ears and throbbed in his crotch as he tiptoed to the darkened back, smelling the stink of damp and mold. Boxes piled higher than his head, the tops sagging, the bottoms rat-gnawed.
It was calling. It was singing.
Singing him deeper into the dark.
And now it bore a note of pain that anguished him to hear.
At the back of the storage room, he found a storage closet.
He opened it, and a wave of bric-a-brac fell out, cascading over him. Something small and alive scurried past his sneakers.
He froze as the sound settled.
Waited.
Neither Salma nor Deacon Calabrese seemed to have heard, so he resumed.
He pawed through handfuls of rubbish, searching deeper, feeling a deep sonorous ocean of sound pull open chasms in his brain. He felt the depth of her torment, locked in this room.
The goddess was crying from in here. Wailing. Awaiting her champion. He had to find the statue, or the sound would drive him mad.
At the bottom, his hand closed on an item that he couldn’t see. It felt neither hot nor cold.
He lifted it into the faint light, and was disappointed.
The figurine was a poor thing, twisted and stunted. It was about half the size of the statue he’d dug up from the lawn, and barely recognizable as a human figure, let alone a large-breasted woman.
He turned it over in his hand, squinting in puzzlement. It had none of that thing’s twisted beauty, crude eroticism, or sense of diabolic craftsmanship.
It looked like a thing a mentally deficient child had made. A crude copy of the original.
But Inanna’s tortured cries had stopped as soon as he touched it.
Alejandro tugged down his cassock, and let his sore cock flop out.
It was already mostly hard. He gripped it, feeling veins writhe as it swelled in his fist.
He pointed his erection at the rough-hewn statue. A dozen wrist-strokes while imagining his mother’s tit-balloons were all it took.
After cumming four times, he had little to give. Hopefully it’s enough, he thought as weak ropes pelted the statue.
If it didn’t, he would slit his wrists open, and let it drink blood—as the other statue had done.
Then he watched as the ceiling flashed from gray to black.
* * *
Darkness. A sense of falling.
Then came revelation.
Alejandro laughed, shuddering and mad. He had been wrong. So wrong!
The statue he’d found in the ground hadn’t been the original. This one was. Despite its crude craftsmanship, it was the lodestone. The source. Its beauty was not for mortal eyes to apprehend.
His, however? They apprehended just fine.
He slid down into a seated posture. The air had a thick, dreamspun quality.
He could have held the figurine in his hand for hours, letting it nourish and heal him, but he felt her voice crack out, like a whip on his back.
Profanuxes tuulenux bhuuesco exim’ha! Cruonita!
* * *
His mother was not confessing.
And Deacon Calabrese was not taking her confession.
He stormed past the apse and its empty confession box, hearing soft grunts and moans as she was fucked in Calabrese’s office.
Fury glowed like heated shrapnel in his chest. He’d suspected this for a long time.
He kicked open the door, and stepped inside.
“Ahh…oh….uhhh…” she lay on her back, with her legs spread. The Deacon was on top of her, fucking her.
Her eyes widened past Calabrese’s shoulder as she saw her son, standing over them.
Her expression was…uncertain.
Then Calabrese lifted his face out of Salma’s splayed and heaving breasts. He twisted his head around, and stared.
“Alejandro?” Calabrese hissed, meeting Alejandro’s dead stare. His ordinarily livid face was suddenly white and fearful.
Ale did not hesitate. He was a raging wind, a burning fire, a drowning flood sweeping over this man’s world.
He was a demon, allowed back into heaven.
He took two steps forward, and grasped a hard-edged gilt nameplate on the Deacon’s desk.
Get out of my mother, you bastard. She’s mine.
The nameplate blurred down on the man’s bald head. It struck with a hard burst of sound.
Ale pounded it down again and again.
Bone cracked and splintered. Blood flew.
He laughed as Calabrese writhed away his life, making choking noises. He flung the man off his mother, and let his lips curl in a smile. Well, mother dearest? Your thoughts?
Salma lay naked before him, her cleavage rising and falling as she sucked in air.
A full minute passed…
…and then she returned his smile.
He sensed Inanna in the curves of her lips, the ivory of her teeth.
Better kiss her, to make sure.
He cast aside his ugly altar boy vestimenta, and toppled down onto her.
His mouth found hers. His cock slid into her on the same heartbeat. She convulsed, her body whiplashing under his weight.
Salma’s cunt made slurping noises as he lunged and pounded his crotch—like a thick-lipped mouth choking on the grotesque pillar of teenage fuckflesh he was cramming through it.
Ale’s face tautened with need—razor-sharp, razor-deadly—as he thundered his cock in and out of her surging, foaming fuck hole. He breedfucked Salma hard on his fat, burgeoning erection. He bottomed out, his balls jolting, his cock squelching to a slippery halt. Its glans was just outside her womb.
Alejandro collapsed onto her like a dynamited building. His huge cock fucked her open with hard, urgent thrusts. He accelerated, frantically thrusting, drawing sharp exclamations of pleasure from her.
She had not been making those sounds for the Deacon, he noted with pleasure.
He arched his hips back, then drove down, drove in, making her plump hipmeat jiggle with his cunt-stabbing plunge. Their loud grunts and moans twined together like lightning. Alejandro began to roar as he smashed his face into her gigantic sweaty mammaries, hammering his cock into her boundless, lust-quenching cunt.
They climaxed on the same thought, the same tone, the same heartbeat.
He felt his balls contract and heave out cum inside her. Her cunt flexed and took his load.
I’m back! he thought. So back I’m gone!
* * *
A question Alejandro would occasionally wonder in the long months to come—in the brief moments when he had strength to wonder anything—was how much of his mother’s behavior came from Inanna.
He did not think his mother was demon-possessed. That is a comforting thought for those asunder in some spiritual midnight. These sins I commit are not mine. They are someone else’s.
But in truth, the door that swings open easiest is the door that’s already partly open.
Salma Hayek, Ale sensed, was that door.
There was something marrow-deep in her bones that wanted this—wanted her son between her legs, breeding her as a husband does a wife—long before the statues had been found.
The demon could not have taken her unless some deep part of her was in deep sympathy with it. This was his escape clause, a moral refuge he threw himself into. He was not doing anything wrong.
This was just unnature taking its course.
* * *
The murder of Deacon Nathaniel Calabrese was attributed to a local drifter.
Salacious rumors swirled for some time—some said that Salma Hayek’s Acura ZDX had been observed on the car park on the day, others said that the altar of his church had been desecrated with bodily fluid of some kind—but these withered. Died.
Salma Hayek fell off the grid.
She bunkered down in her Bel Air mansion, blowing off interviews, blowing off media commitments, not even returning her agent’s emails. For months, she hardly set foot outside her front door.
Soon, it became clear that she was pregnant.
She seemed gloriously healthy in the photos a lucky TMZ hoofer snapped at the gate. Her flesh glowed with a light that was almost infernal. Her enormous, swollen belly bobbed as she stroked a hand over it, smiling a bit.
Photos of her teenaged son, Alejandro, were also snapped. These were too odd to publish. Too disquietening. It’s not every day you see an elderly man who’s eighteen years old.
“I am about to disappear soon,” he rambled brokenly to a reporter, ashen-faced and drained. “Maybe after the baby. Maybe before. Maybe…maybe I’m its food.”
The reporter was quite confused,
“I’m not worried,” Ale said. “I’m ready now. Ready to become part of a bigger thing. Maybe I’ll be treated well in the world that comes after, or maybe not. Who knows? I gave Inanna the water of life. I gave her what was needed. I’m like a cup, or a glass of water. Do you treat those things well? Maybe. Maybe not…”
He babbled about a ritual. A returning. A force that had cored out the entire center of the mansion, a force that he could hear screaming in his mind right now, rattling his teeth.
“My mother is a doorway,” he said. “Her cunt, her flesh, it…engorges. She’s a chrysalis. She’s birthing tomorrow.”
The reporter did the nod-and-back-away deal you do with crazy people.
Needless to say, none of Alejandro’s words about his mother’s cunt birthing tomorrow were printed.
* * *
Salma Hayek gave birth on the 21st of October. The same day and month that Maria Delgado y Cordobez had died at the hands of a nameless Ossetian tinker, so long ago.
She went into labor and was taken to Bel Air Medical Center.
The delivery was long and arduous.
Contractions rolled through her endlessly. Ceaselessly. Day became night. Doctors and nurses were rotated in and out in shifts. EFM machinery was calibrated, and recalibrated again. The ultrasound recordings ticking out of her belly…they did not make sense.
Salma lay heaving on a Fowler bed, raging and shrieking and exhorting, her mouth cursing venom at anyone who approached her—even the nurse who tried to give her an epidural. She ordered them to save her baby—to yield their own lives in this duty, if necessary. She screamed in English, then ranted in Spanish. And as delivery went on and on into the early hours, her speech slipped out of any recognizable language at all.
She seemed superhumanly strong. A nurse who tried to restrain her was flung into a wall. Bones broke like sticks.
At dawn, they shot her up with 15mg of nalbuphine. It did nothing.
A speculum was inserted into her birth canal. It soon became too hot to touch, and was pulled back, with the tips corroded and burnt, as if from a white-hot furnace.
Finally, after ten hours of labor, a cauled birth occurred. The baby burst free in a sudden, clenching rush, still in the amniotic sac. It was wet and slippery and stank. Shouts of alarm rang out. A thing was twisting horrifically inside the glistening bag—long and barely-glimpsed limbs that thrashed and jittered abhumanly. It looked oddly…black.
Then Salma Hayek sat up, laughing and roaring in triumph. “It is done! It is over!”
Worms were coming out of her vagina now. Red, wriggling worms.
A nurse disobeyed her doctor’s orders to stand back.
She gathered up the squirming lump from the floor, snipped open the amniotic sac, and scraped away detritus until she could see the baby’s face.
She started screaming.
THE END
* * *
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