Chapter 1—Like Butter in Sunshine
Salma Hayek’s teenage son dreams of fucking his strict Catholic mother. He accidentally awakens a demon living beneath their Bel Air mansion.
A/N: “I think there is not a devil left in hell; they have all gone into you!”—Martin Luther King, 1525, Against the Robbing and Murdering Hordes of Peasants (from Vol. 46 of Luther’s Works)
Description: Salma Hayek’s eighteen-year-old son dreams of fucking his strict Catholic mother. He awakens a demon living under their Bel Air mansion.
“I think there is not a devil left in hell; they have all gone into you!”—Martin Luther King, 1525, Against the Robbing and Murdering Hordes of Peasants (from Vol. 46 of Luther’s Works)
tags: salma hayek, incest, mother-son, large breasts, taboo, guilt, shame, oral, religion
There is no woman alive so pure yet so drenched in filth as Salma Valgarma Hayek Jiménez.
Her face has the tragic, haunted quality of Falconetti’s Joan of Arc. Her eyes descant fire like Trevisani’s Virgin Mary. Her amber-lustrous skin belongs on stained glass. But her body…
Well, it’s obscene. Lewd, fleshy, and overripe. Beneath her prayerfully holy face is a voluptuous, sin-drenched wonderland where the male mind wanders measurements—40–24–42—gets lost in curves, sinks, then drowns. She is a temple to sybaritic excess. A doorway to disgusting places within yourself. She fills the observer with lust and heat and finally something like sorrow, because her flesh is a mirror, and in it you see an animal. There’s distress in the beauty of Salma Hayek. Agony.
She is a glimpse of heaven, and knowledge that when we die its gates will remain barred…
Alejandro Hayek spied on his mother through the gap in her door.
His penis surged and squirmed, slithering wetly in his fist. Every morning was the same morning—this morning. Face pressed to the crack in the door, breath pooling hotly against the mahogany, vapor coiling back upon his sweaty face. Eye slitted to the inch-wide gap, feasting hungrily on flesh.
He hated himself for doing this. Hated. Hated. Hated.
Mom sat on the edge of the bed, naked and oblivious. Brushing her hair, with her flesh still steaming from the shower.
Her back was turned. Alejandro’s throat constricted as he contemplated the depth of her ass—two massive slabs of muscle and meat, big as moss-overgrown boulders, rifted down the center by a slash of shadow, seemingly deep enough to swallow his entire arm without allowing contact with the bottom of her enormous ass.
His cock drooled out a strand of precum. I hope she turns around this morning…
It was her tits he truly wanted to see—huge pendulous masses of flesh, barely hinted at as they wobbled out from behind her back. Two big bulging sacks that had once fed him. They kept swinging in and out of view as she brushed—teasing him, driving him crazy.
shluck…shluck…
His hand whispered like liquid breath as it flew across his prick, pumping out wet strokes.
Turn around, Mom… He drew in breath and held it until it became a lungful of poison. Turn around.
Let. Me. See. Your. Tits.
It was a cool day in Bel Air, but the mansion seemed to drip with heat. Sweat carved knife tracks down his back. He squinted through the narrow crack until she became strangely blurry in his vision—a Mommy-mirage.
As though she wasn’t there, and maybe didn’t even exist. Maybe that would have been better.
At least then he wouldn’t be living with this shame…this sickness…
I’m in lust with my own mother.
He wished he’d never discovered the crack in her bedroom door. The crack that wept light into the darkness of the hall. The crack that allowed you to see without being seen.
The sheer littleness of it…he was consumed by incestuous fantasies because of an inch of air between a door and a jamb. Because some pendejo carpenter hadn’t hung a door correctly. He’d never had sexual thoughts about his mother until he’d gone walking down the hallway one morning and had noticed a fissure of light, widening in a triangle over the flooring, like a pointing arrow.
Come. Stand. Look.
Mom had raised an obedient Catholic boy, and he’d followed the arrow’s point to the light of her bedroom…and had stared into it.
And then hadn’t been able to stop.
Alejandro Hayek was a boy who loved his mother in the worst way possible.
Mom’s upper body swayed as she brushed her long hair, singing Ave Maria. Her thick Norteño accent made vowels and consonants twist like beautiful roses, sprouting from a vine of sound.
Ave Maria, gratia plena,
Maria, gratia plena,
Maria, gratia plena,
Ave, Ave, Dominus
Alejandro drooled, pounding his cock. He loved the ripples surging through her thick, ultra-fuckable body.
She gripped a handful of hair, pulled it straight as a switchblade, then let the brush ride down it. shhhhaaaakkk! Sheets of muscles fluxed like harpstrings across her back. He loved her hair, which was so dense that she made a full-body workout out of taming it.
The brush caught a knot. She jerked it free, and the jerk caused a breast the size of a cannonball to briefly wobble into view, slopping out behind her back before swinging back. Fuck! Was that a nipple? Alejandro’s fist tightened around his prick, squeezing out a glistening strand.
His days had a wearying routine.
He’d hear the thunk of her shower shutting off, tiptoe to her bedroom door, and stand there sweating: breath shallow; heart slamming; throat dry; muscles coiled; nerves razor-edged; cock tenting his pants. He’d focus on the empty bed, trying to will her onto the tousled white sheets. Sometimes Mom spent thirty seconds toweling herself, sometimes a couple of minutes. But then she’d emerge from the bathroom, and the Salma Show would begin.
It was her most unsung and overlooked role. It would never win her an Oscar or an Emmy. It was so obscure, in fact, that Mom herself did not know she starred in it. The Salma Show aired each morning for an audience of just one…but that audience never missed an episode.
Ale’s eyes would bug out as delicate white feet strutted naked and moist from the shower. She’d sit on the bed, a towel folded in a way that—depending on his mood—suggested angelic wings or a funeral shroud. His heart would beat faster as she began brushing. It was a matter of time until her white bathtowel slid down her naked body, unraveled by the movement of her slender arms.
Even if her back wasn’t turned to the door, Mom could not see out into the hall. Ale had carefully confirmed this.
So long as the hallway lights stayed dimmed and he stayed quiet, he would not be detected. Once Mom started brushing her hair—singing an odd mix of Catholic hymns, Mariachi standards, and Ricky Martin—even being quiet was optional.
shhhhaakkk shhhhaaaakk
The brushstrokes sent shivers scurrying like rats across his skin. It sounded like a butcher’s knife being sharpened. He had gotten used to timing his strokes so they matched, masking her sound with his.
She swayed on the bed—sways all the more sensual for being natural, unchoreographed. This was so much better than masturbating to photos where she was being hot on purpose, posed and primped for a photographer, an editor, an audience. Ale had watched none of Mom’s movies. He didn’t like it when she put herself on a plate for public consumption, whore for all the world.
Ale liked having Mom all to himself.
She laid the brush by her side. He stopped breathing entirely. Yes. Good. Now turn around…
She tossed her head back, slinging hair in a glorious jet flash that splashed and flowed down her shoulders. Sleek tresses ran in rivers, following her back’s curves, settling above the obscene massiveness of her ass.
shlupshlupshlupshlup
Alejandro began masturbating in earnest. Drooling, panting, almost tearing his cock off with his fist. Stroking faster and faster, racing himself, letting pleasure crescendo to the edge of an orgasm, then the edge of the edge. He stifled a gasp. A spasm shot through his scrotum. Cum boiled up, thick and hot as lava in his aching testicles…
…he stopped stroking. He didn’t want to ejaculate before he saw her breasts.
Turn. The fuck. Around.
The moment stretched out. Mom just sat, big-assed and calm, doing nothing. Turn around! His mind gibbered and his cock throbbed, two heads with one thought. Don’t just sit there! Turn around! Turn around!
He did not deserve to have his wish fulfilled.
Salma sighed, uncrossed her thighs, and twisted her luscious body around.
He gasped as they swung to face the door—his mother’s mammoth breasts, draped like shopping bags filled with cream. They spilled, flattened slightly upon her sloping belly. They trembled obscenely, lying in enormous pilings that looked unbelievably huge, heavy and full. Her nipples resembled mountaineers clinging precariously to her Matterhorn-esque peaks.
Then Mom grunted, and gripped her huge bulbous tits beneath one arm. She lifted them up. They bulged like watermelons between her forearm and chest. With her free hand, she dragged a swipe of Sol de Janeiro underarm deodorant across musky-looking underboob skin, then released her titanic udders. They fell with heavy slaps. PLAP! CLAP!
Alejandro immediately orgasmed. He hadn’t touched his cock in thirty seconds. His load began chugging out anyway.
Eyes bulging, insides writhing, guts turning slippery with a boiling, rising heat. Pleasure exploded like a black flower, fountaining from his crotch. His body twisted in knots upon itself. His hips began pumping a slick rhythm, churning a slippery path through his fist as sperm looped down his epididymis duct.
shlapp-shlapp-shlapp!
His cock pulsed in his hand, as thick cum flooded down its length. His dickhole yawned, preparing to vomit it against the door.
Nothing came.
Ale grunted, veins writhing in his neck. His cockhead twitched in his fist. No sperm was coming out.
His dick was blocked by something—his urethra felt like a drain clogged with grease. His bulbo-urethral muscles jerked painfully inside his body, resisted by something. Pressure built and built until he thought cum would come hosing out of his ears, and then—
SPLAT!
A huge wad of thick congealed sperm blew out of his cock like phlegm from a sneeze. It hit the door with the loudest noise Alejandro had ever heard his cum make, in all the hundreds of loads he’d blown across Mom’s bedroom door.
Salma heard it too. Her eyes flicked to his direction—alert, suspicious.
Fuck. Ale wanted to die. She heard, you idiot, and now she’s gonna-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-FUCK—!
Gasping, hips jerking, he sent powerful ropes of thick yellow gunk smacking against her bedroom door. His orgasm kicked against the inside of his skull like a horse. None of the spurts were as loud as the first blast, but they were many and they were copious. Waves of pleasure coruscated through him, rattling his teeth as he climaxed. He couldn’t run, couldn’t escape, just had to stand there and expel his nasty, backed-up sperm to the last dregs.
As ropes rose and fell, he watched Mom sweep arms in a cross over her large bare breasts, staring suspiciously, her thoughts visible on her face. Did I imagine a sound against the door? Or imagine I imagined? Ale suppressed moans. He watched his dickhole hose out nearly a dozen streams of nasty, diseased-looking sperm over the burnished mahogany, with Salma just staring at the gap the whole time.
Can she truly not see me from here? Suddenly he was unsure of a fact he’d checked dozens of times.
Finally, she shrugged, took her eyes from the door, and continued dressing.
…And Ale breathed for the first time in over a minute.
His cock dribbled, growing soft. It slid free of his hand with a filthy slurp, dangling at the floor.
blorrp
He panted, and then guilt prompted him into action. Hurry. Clean up the mess. Mom was dressing in earnest now. She sheathed her beautiful flesh in clothes, like a blade in its scabbard. She slipped on silk panties, then began wrestling her breasts into the cups of a bra.
Ale hurriedly mopped up his cum with a handful of tissues. The sheer amount of rank, steaming sperm he’d blown over her door was disturbing. It oozed down in thick, clinging cords of yellow-tinged pollution.
He imagined his mother’s gigantic tits getting splattered by that huge load. His orgasm-buzzing prick twitched, beginning to rise once again.
Salma’s morning toilette occupied her for about thirty to forty minutes. He could beat off twice if she was slow or he was quick. Once she’d taken an urgent phone call from her script agent, and he’d masturbated three times.
But he always, always preferred slow—extending pleasure, delaying guilt. Deferring the apocalyptic moment when his load rushed out and shame flooded in.
She deserves a better son.
Ale was disgusted by himself. Viscerally repulsed by his body—aware of its gurgles, its secretions, its filth. He’d just showered but his crotch and armpits already seemed to stink, overactive teenage hormones swilling through every pore. His dripping cock felt livid and obscene as it went back into his pants, like an excision of human bowel.
Mom always made him feel this way, even when he wasn’t spying on her—she had an aggressive, combative sort of purity that made him feel deeply dirty, like a pig rooting in mud. Sometimes Mom consciously meant to make him feel small. Most of the time she simply did it.
Not that jerking over her bedroom door was helping his case.
Heart racing, Alejandro padded down the hall, the wad of soiled tissues dripping in his hand. The family mansion was large and spacious. High ceilings. Corners that filled with biophilic pools of darkness. When Dad had filed divorce papers and moved out, it had seemed too big. But Alejandro now appreciated its cavernous quality. Lots of space for shame. For secrets.
He flushed the tissues, just as Mom’s pumps rang on the hallway tiles.
“Ale!” her voice sang out. “Time for church!”
Mother and son drove through heavy LA traffic, heading for Saint Paul the Apostle Parish.
Salma’s white-gloved hands rested on the Acura ZDX’s wheel, holding it like the reins of a horse. Her back was regal and erect. Presidential. Shocking allegations of nut-brown skin peeked between her gloves and sleeves. Sunglasses reflected shattered impressions of the road ahead.
She could not and did not see her son ogling her from the backseat.
Today, Mom wore a black and gold bustier that hugged her figure with the tightness of eager, gripping hands. The bustier swelled at her chest, pulled in at her waist, then exploded out again to accommodate the sheer thickness of her big meaty ass. Her long legs curved down, slit modestly at the side to expose some ankle. A platform pump tapped a toe-light rhythm on the gas pedal.
Ale squirmed in the backseat, eyes jabbing from point to point on Mom’s body. He was obsessed with her. Her scent filled the car and his nose—her bodywash, and the dab of Yves Saint Laurent at her throat. He could smell something else. Maybe it was the deodorant she’d used on the undersides of her massive boobs.
Another erection rose from his crotch. They sprouted like weeds around his Mom—he jerked out one, and another grew in its place.
The Acura hit a pothole. Salma’s face did not move, but her monster tits bobbled with the jolt. Excellent suspension—the Acura’s was also pretty good.
“After church, I will need your muscles, Ale,” Salma said. “I have twelve Viburnum Emerald Lustres that I need to plant beside the driveway. You can dig the holes.”
Ale groaned. There went his afternoon. “Weren’t we hiring a groundskeeper for things like that?”
“I haff tried,” Salma said, curling her lip. “The agency has not returned my calls. Just as none of the maids are returning our calls. Nobody likes to work at our mansion, as I’ve told you. And anyway, it is good to do yard work yourself.”
Her voice settled into familiar hectoring tones. A white-gloved finger lifted from the wheel and began to wag.
“You spend too much time at home, Ale. Too much time playing those Satanic com-pooh-ter games. Too much time on Teek-Tock…”
Her mouth moved long after Alejandro had stopped listening. This talk was old and familiar to him. You need more church, more catechisms, more incense smoke, more Christ. Blah blah blah.
As she lectured and wagged her finger, Alejandro’s eyes roved across her obscenely-fleshed body. She was oblivious to her son’s hungry stare.
Her tits are so big…oh my God…
Straining, he could see hints of their outlines through her bustier. Could see the upper slopes of her immense globes pooling from the tops of the bra cups, wobbling like jelly.
The car turned a corner and merged into San Moreno drive. It left the shadow of a building, and slid into a river of sunlight.
Sudden brilliance flooded through the Acura ZDX’s sunroof, pouring over Mom’s turbo-stacked body. He stifled a gasp. Her bustier flashed translucent, scalded diaphanous by the California sun. Ale glimpsed her chest’s huge, audacious bulges, her Gore-Tex reinforced bra straining its buckles, gallons of supple creamy flesh exploding from the 34H cups, overflowing titflesh spilling out everywhere it could, and writhed in his seat. His raging boner snaking inside his dress pants, painfully restrained by fabric. He hoped the wet spot wouldn’t show as they sat side by side in the pews. He began to plan the logistics of relieving himself. Mom liked to stay fifteen minutes after Mass to chat to her amigas. He’d masturbate again in the church bathrooms.
I would do anything to touch that body… he thought, as she snarled and scolded her way through his flaws and failings—an immensely long list, yet missing one major thing. Anything at all.
Unrequited lust.
It inspires less poetry than unrequited love. It is no less cruel to its victims. One person burns alive. The other doesn’t even feel warm.
Salma was still talking. “…if I could have my time over again, I would have raised you very differently, Ale. I was too lenient. I should have made you stay an altar boy, like Josefina did with her son. That was where it all went wrong for you, I think…”
“Mom?” Ale decided to try something.
“Yes?”
“You look…nice today.”
“You are very kind.” She even didn’t turn around. “I am fond of this outfit. Carmelita picked it out for me.”
She said this in the all-business tone she used on fans, on journalists. Thank you. Next.
Ale felt annoyed. He was her son. Not some grinning asshole with an autograph to sign. Her son.
“I wasn’t talking about your dress.” Ale’s voice broke its leash, and became a snarl. Raw and lustful. “I meant…underneath…”
Salma’s smile lost wattage. “I’m sorry? What?”
Ale gulped, froze, and pushed on ahead.
“You’re hot, Mom,” he whispered at her shoulder. “Sexy. I see why Dad married you.”
Salma flinched from him. Her lips hissed shock. Her hands clenched on the wheel, throwing the Acura from its lane. The wheels scraped against white paint, then she straightened the car with a reverse-pull of the steering wheel, flinging Ale to the side wall.
For ten seconds, silence crushed all the air from the car. Then…
“Ale!” she gasped. “What a thing to say!”
He wished he’d been born without a mouth. “I’m sorry.”
“I cannot believe my ears!” Her voice was thin and shocked, yet drove a knife through him. “I am your mother! What is wrong with you? That was disgusting!”
Alejandro sighed. “I, um, meant it as a compliment. You’re…er…pretty. That’s all.”
Furious, Mom slapped a gloved hand against the wheel. This time, he flinched.
“¿Lo dije con buena intención? No. No! You will never talk to me like that again, Ale! Understood? Never!”
He babbled apologies. Her raised hand stopped them. Mom wasn’t done.
In words knotted with rage, she told him things he hadn’t heard before—things that had happened to her as a girl.
Salma Hayek had not always been a rich and famous A-lister. Once she’d been a poor teenage actress from Coatzacoalcos, Mexico, toiling at the coalface of Mexico’s telenovela trade and experiencing daily sexual harassment.
She told Ale about men grabbing her ass at the copy machine; grinding against her at afterparties; sneaking into the wardrobe department to masturbate over her clothes, whispering in her ear about what a yes would gain her or a no cost her.
Every entertainment industry has a Harvey Weinstein. Not every entertainment industry has a Ronan Farrow. Alejandro withered as she spoke, feeling like a slug not even worth the trouble of salting.
“I used to lie awake and hate being a woman,” she dabbed a kerchief against a flushed brow. “I prayed for the Blessed Virgin Mother to take away my chest and my…bottom. Just take away all that made me femenino, so horrible men would leave me alone.”
Ale was collapsing. Crumbling.
He saw Salma’s firm-set jawline in the mirror—a wrecking ball, wrecking him to rubble. “Things are better for me now. Thank God! I left Mexico, and have a life of my own design. A life free of depraved men and their disgusting urges, where I am shown respect. Or so I thought until now, Ale…!”
Her voice rippled with disgust.
“…My own son has grown up to be one of those men! My own son is now staring at me and saying horrible things about my body! I cannot believe it, Ale. I just cannot!”
Alejandro sighed, sagging against the car seat. “I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean it.”
No reply. He had meant it. She knew. He knew. Why pretend? She just stared at the road ahead, letting her silence throttle him. The rooftop of Saint Paul’s was now in sight over the brownstone roofs.
“Forgive me,” he whined, throwing away all dignity. “I’ll never do it again.”
Mom coldly flicked the turn signal. She merged onto Ohio Avenue, then the car crunched onto the parish’s gravel carpark. They had their own private parking space, with a nameplate. HAYEK.
He did not try to talk to her again as they got out of the car. Pointless. Salma Hayek would be offended by any comparison between herself and a peach, but not all of the parallels were sexual.
Like a peach, she bruised easily.
Like a peach, she bruised forever.
“Now the works of the flesh are manifest, which are fornication, uncleanness, immodesty…”
Mass.
Deacon Calabrese roared and bellowed atop the pulpit, his rage-flexed neck and shaven sweat-gleaming scalp emerging from the folds of an immense black cassock. Ale found him terrifying. He rose above the sea of hats and heads like a stormcloud whose thunder is Leviticus.
Ale sat on the bench, eyes down, squirming uncomfortably. His cock was still throbbing. He worried a splinter loose from the pew and tortured himself with the point.
Mom sat beside him, prim and correct, fingers lap-laced, eyes forward. He kept shooting sideways glances at her. He never saw her doing the same to him. A ship’s figurehead had more movement, and more maternal warmth.
If the drive home had been any frostier, Alejandro would have lost fingers and toes.
Salma spoke once to him once—only once. “Maria is consecrating her baby this afternoon. I am going to the ceremony, then to her casa afterward. I will be back by dinner.”
“Oh, wow! Maria had a baby?” Alejandro had zero fucking clue who this person was. “That’s so cool! What’s the baby’s name? Is it a boy or a—?”
She raised a blade-sharp hand. “I am sorry, Ale, but I do not feel like talking at the moment. Please just dig the holes in the driveway if you are able.”
If you are able. Fascinating, how she barbed even the simplest request. You fail and disappoint in all other ways, Alejandro. Why should I assume this will be any different.
Ale cringed, and fell silent.
Inside, he was fuming with rage.
At home, Mom prepared for the consecration. Alejandro ran to his bedroom to take care of a problem. He flushed a fresh batch of semen-soggy tissues, then changed out of his church clothes. Pausing only to grab a shovel from the garage, he marched outside, whistling loudly, all smiles and cheer. He was on a charm offensive—determined to get back into Mom’s good graces.
As her car pulled out of the driveway, he purposefully stood beside the driveway so she’d see him with a shovel. Look, Mom! Digging those holes, just like you asked! Aren’t I a good boy?
He waved goodbye to the retreating Acura—saw Mom lift a white-gloved hand two inches from the steering wheel, then drop it back down.
A start, at least. Hopefully they’d be back on speaking terms by dinner. Or next dinner. Or the dinner after that.
Getting those holes dug might not help his case. Failing to do so would absolutely hurt it.
The car vanished over Beverly Glen Boulevard, eaten by a hill, and Alejandro set to work.
The shovel blade bit into the earth; took a mouthful; spat it back out.
Alejandro grunted and strained: planting the shovel, kicking it into the soil, then heaving out moist wedges of dirt. Mom had marked the spots where she wanted the Viburnum Emerald Lustres.
There seemed to be so, so many of them. He wasn’t used to strenuous yard work. After thirty seconds, he was aware of his own breathing. After two minutes, he was panting. After five, he was falling-down exhausted. Time for a break. He spiked his shovel into the ground, and leaned against it. That’s progress, right? I’ve dug… He turned and counted. …Three holes? Huh. Felt like more.
Then he gazed the other way, at the mansion where he and Salma lived after her divorce from Ale’s father.
It reared like a fairytale castle—double-storied, driving a blunt wedge up to the peerless Santa Monican skyline. It caught and winnowed light from its gables and shingles, dazzling him. He liked the contrast. Outer brightness, and inner darkness. Romanticism in the streets, and Bauhaus in the sheets.
It had been built in the 1930s. He still remembered the real estate agent’s brochure. It was 6,811 square feet of living space on 1.5 acres of land, with two floors, four bedrooms, and three bathrooms. It had a swimming pool, a greenhouse, and a bike path.
What it did not have was help.
It was strangely hard to find housemaids to vacuum and dust the 6,811 square feet.
Puzzlingly difficult to find groundskeepers to mow and trim the acre-and-a-half.
Two months ago, Mom had told him why.
“They all think our house is haunted,” she’d said at dinner.
Salma was drunk—or her version of it. She’d uncork a bottle of something, fill a glass two-thirds full, then top it up with distilled water from the fridge. Mom made a single bottle of Chateau Beychevelle last for months.
“Haunted?” Alejandro liked Drunk Mom far more than her sober sister. The wine had brought roses to her face. She was giggly and merry. Strangely loose. She kept touching and petting her son. Caressing him. She shifted in her seat, and her enormous tits swung heavily under her blouse. He saw with some fascination that her nipples were erect and poking through her bra.
“Oh, it’s not really haunted. Those abuelitos love to yap-yap-yap among themselves.” She made a talky-talk gesture with her hand…but looked suddenly uneasy. “Just in case, I had Deacon Calabrese sanctify every room with holy water. Just to drive out anything…evil.”
“Why would there be something evil here, Mom?”
Salma shushed him, and laid a hand on his arm. Hairs rippled under her touch.
“When we bought this house, what did the agent say to your father?”
“That the house was…umm…” Distracted by Mom’s erect nipples, Alejandro’s grammar school English failed him. “…Edificio histórico?”
She rapped his arm playfully. “Nosotros hablamos inglés at the table, Ale! The house is historic. Repeat that for me. HEE-STOR-REEK!”
“Historic.” He knew the word—knew it could mean a lot of things.
Alejandro had once visited Mexico. Mom had shown him her old school in Coatzacoalcos—a stucco building with a faded sign nailed to the wall. “1910—Aquí durmió Pancho Villa.” Pancho Villa Slept Here. Alejandro had dutifully pretended to be impressed, although he had seen a similar sign in the last town they’d visited, and the town before that. There were thousands of Pancho Villa Slept Here signs across Mexico, it seemed. Pancho Villa would have needed to sleep five times a night in five different places for them to all be true. But still, at least it was possible that a famous revolutionary had once spent the night at the Coatzacoalcos school, and that made it historic.
He did not think the family mansion was hee-stor-reek for a similar reason.
“A person once died here,” Salma tapped the table. “In 1935.”
Bored, Ale chopped a cauliflower floret in half. “People die in every house, Mom.”
“What happened to her was worse than just dying.” Mom said, visibly sobering. Her smile became a rictus, then disappeared completely. Her eyes flitted; looking worried. As though something might be listening. “She was murdered. Except it was worse than just being murdered.”
“How was she murdered?” Ale loved murder stories—the gorier, the better.
“They thought she was a witch, and…” Mom shuddered. “I don’t want to talk about it. The agent started describing what they did to that young girl, and I asked him to stop, it was so horrible. I wish I could forget it!”
And Ale had left it alone because he didn’t want to make her miserable. But he did want to know how the woman had died.
Later, he’d searched the internet for old auction listings and bills of sale, but found nothing of substance.
Not the slightest hint of a murder.
Several sources claimed the mansion was historic. But none of them mentioned the reason why.
Back in the present, Alejandro resumed digging.
He didn’t believe the mansion was haunted. He’d never seen any ghosts; had never witnessed anything paranormal.
But what did the word paranormal mean, honestly? Something not part of the natural order.
Like wanting to fuck your own mother, say. Hard to imagine an impulse less natural.
He shuddered at the thought. Maybe the house was haunted…by a ghost of flesh and blood called Alejandro Pinault Hayek. A ghost so worthless and minor it hadn’t troubled itself to die yet.
God help him!
A cloud drew a thin and ragged veil over the sun. The mansion lay under drifting shadows. Time crawled—the seconds felt like thick porridge, clinging upon everything.
Ale closed his eyes—
—and erotic fantasies of Mom surged into his mind, a hot and unbidden river. He shuddered, shivering although the sun was hot. He imagined himself on top of her. Fucking her. Making her scream. Squeezing her breasts. Plundering her flesh.
I’d never do that! I’d never!
Sexual thoughts crashed through him, roiling like smoke in an alembic. In blearily-pictured fantasies, he saw himself fucking his beautiful, obscenely-fleshed mother, plundering her body, rutting her cunt, pumping his cock up her ass, forcing erotic obscenities to surge out with her breath, moaning under his hips.
A huge erection pulsed, tenting Ale’s pants. He started to masturbate it, squeezing his dry cock through rough denim. No, don’t start, or you’ll be doing it all afternoon. Dig. You’ll be in deep shit if Mom comes back and you haven’t finished your chores.
Ale groaned, wiped sweat from his brow—like the hardworking protagonist in a Bruce Springsteen anthem instead of the pampered son of a Telemundo queen made good in Hollywood—and continued digging.
Scowling, he punched the shovel into the earth.
An impact flung a jolt up his arm.
Chikk—
Another fucking root. Great. There were millions of them in the front driveway.
Swearing, he stabbed the shovel into the earth again and again. Same jarring impact each time. It didn’t feel like a root—there was no sense of elasticity or bend, no sense that he was hacking through it with the metal of the shovel. It felt like digging through stone.
A quick look into the hole confirmed that he was doing exactly this. There was stone down there. Something glittered beneath the shovel—hematite or mica or something. He scraped away dirt with the shovel’s pointed tip, intending on yanking out the old paving stone, or whatever it was.
A closer look brought him up short.
That’s strange… He frowned, squinting into the darkness of the hole.
It looked almost like the shovel had hit a…
creaaaaakkkk—
The door of the empty mansion swung open behind him.
Blown by the wind, he thought, before noticing there was no wind.
Thud! The crash of the door shutting made him jump. A series of sharp, precise echoes hit the flagstones behind him. Footsteps—distinctly female footsteps—clacked out, heels striking travertine. They became louder as they approached him from the house.
He turned and saw…
“Mom…?” he whispered.
Salma Hayek’s shadow split off from her body like a switchblade, falling on the path. She strutted up the travertine driveway, propelled by sharp, muscular swerves of her hips, the blackness of that shadow leading the way. She stood tall and resplendent, dressed as dark as her shadow, with the tassels of a belt flowing behind her in the wind. Her skirt billowed with the wildness of weather. A storm on a leash.
I saw you drive away, Mom. The shovel fell from his hand. How did you get back inside the house? Where’s the car?
Mom’s almond eyes flicked onto his face, and her gaze tore at it with a laser’s inhuman fury. Terrifying. Radiant. Too hot and too intense to meet—eye contact felt like gripping a knife that’s all blade.
Salma’s mouth pressed out a short, nearly-bloodless line, which relaxed into a shape that was hungry. Perhaps insatiable.
She appeared to be smiling.
As does a skull.
Her shadow snaked down the path, then poured blackness over his feet and legs. Eclipsed by her approach. Alejandro thought a thousand thoughts but spoke none of them. His mouth collapsed open, and stayed there. No speech.
He’d often thought that he was scared of his Mom—her judgment, her scorn, her cutting remarks.
But he’d never actually been afraid. It wasn’t like Mom would actually kill him because he forgot to clean his room or had gripped the Crocifero the wrong way while serving as altar boy at church. Ashamed or embarrassed or guilty…these things are not afraid.
For the first and maybe only time, he apprehended the difference.
Now he was afraid.
Salma’s advance halted. She stood, panting with her mouth open. Her beautiful, ravenous face was still on his; eyes wanting, mouth open. Her face was a desperation-riven death mask. Her teeth caught light, and seemed like fangs.
In her stare lived the coldest hunger ever felt.
Biting her lip, she thrust her chest forward. Big water-balloon sized tits sloshed ponderously before his face.
Despite his fear, Ale’s cock swelled, inflating out his jeans like a bike pump. Neither terror nor logic could stop the erection from growing.
“Mom…” he was gripped by a queer melting feeling. He was ice, her eyes a blowtorch. “What’s wrong?”
Salma’s eyes slid onto his bulge as it distended his pants. Her expression did not warm and its hunger did not abate.
“Pretia cruento crunatus,” she said. “Bhuu desco vilo maxus?”
What did she just say?
“Mom, why are you back at the house? Where’s the car?”
He made the mistake of glancing around for the Acura, as though she might have brought it home in her pocket and then covertly returned it to the driveway somehow.
Salma hissed with a viper’s rage. A hand snapped toward his chin, caught it, and lifted it. His eyes were forced onto hers. She would not allow him to look anywhere else.
And in that instant, as he flowed like running water down two dark tunnels in her face, he became certain of two things.
First, he should have run a long time ago.
Second, this thing was not his mother.
She tilted her head down. The planes of her arrogant, regal face descended ten degrees. She had the contempt of a predator. Shadows flowed into curves, then out of them, chased by the harsh sun.
Salma bared her white teeth. A shudder skipped through him.
They were definitely fangs.
I think I am about to die.
She lifted up both her hands before her flesh-overflowing chest. Fingers clawed at the edges of her bustier…and then tore it wide open, like a maiden in one of her old telenovelas.
She did not undress. Wrong word. What she did had as much resemblance to undressing as it did to a hyena stripping a carcass.
Her hands became claws that tore her clothes away. Where they yielded, they yielded. Where they didn’t, she ripped the fabric in half. White-knuckled fingers destroyed the bustier. Buttons pulled, then exploded from their threads with yielding pops. Alejandro felt one skip against his shoes, bouncing away.
Then she stood in her underwear, with only a 34H bra between his hands and her breasts.
Alejandro gasped. The Bel Air sun scythed down on her, blazing over her skin, illuminating absolutely Mom’s mountainous flesh cannons. He could see the massive circles of her bra cups, and the huge pools of flesh bulging inside each one, sloshing out anywhere it could—over the gore, against the taut center straps. The upper slopes of her tits exploded from her bra like rising batter expanding from a cake pan.
Next, the snarling Mommy-demon ripped away the bra. She didn’t unhook it; she tore it to pieces.
Her strength seemed demonic. The reinforced maternity bra offered no resistance to her clawing hands. He blinked as a spoke of silver underwire exploded from one of the cups, nearly impaling her awesome left breast. It raked a red line on her deep cinnamon skin. No blood flowed from the scratch.
He blinked, seeing Mom’s pendulous breasts sag and spill, collapsing down her chest in a pouring avalanche of meat. Her tits seemed to unfurl, pouring down her chest like golden scrolls before they settled. A landslide of luscious tits bounced and jiggled to a halt, their sweaty surfaces gleaming.
Ale goggled, mouth opening and closing. Her nipples stared without awareness or sight. He imagined how they’d feel when caught between his teeth.
He’d spewed gallons of sperm to those enormous, bobbling tits, knuckling it one rope at a time across her bedroom door. They were even better up close, when he wasn’t squinting through her bedroom door.
Yet he shrank.
Shrank away from the fulfillment of want and fantasy. Fear made him feel small.
But backing away from her didn’t matter. Mom just strode forward—claiming space he’d willingly surrendered, then claiming space he hadn’t—until they were face to face, eye to eye. Their breath boiled in cross-currents between them, like warring winds. Her exhales felt cold as they poured out on his skin, as though there was only ice behind those blazing hot lips.
“Pretia cruento crunatus,” Mom spat harshly. “Bhuu desco vilo maxus?”
Strange words. Incomprehensible question. The syllables lashed him like braided whips. A jerk spasmed through him, and his half-hard cock ballooned back to full size in his pants.
Then his mother crashed into him, and began grinding her luscious figure against him. Salma clawed Alejandro forward, pulling him into an embrace that felt beyond incestuous…it felt positively vampiric. He felt lust like never before, reinforced with a heartwood of pure terror.
Salma pressed herself to him, undressing him with machinelike speed. He felt his shirt torn away, whiffing through his hair. Then her hands were grasping palmfuls of his chest. Next, her breasts spread upon his chest like oven-warm bread dough.
Salma Hayek smiled her bloodhungry smile, and leaned in.
Lips parted. A thick lascivious tongue spilled out. It glistened in the sun, a slick red road of ice. Then its wanton tip touched his chest, and she began slurping up his skin.
He moaned as Mom’s head dipped and glided low, kissing and sucking her son’s quivering chest. Her tongue painted out saliva in an unending moist highway—looping, whorling, reconnecting. Her teeth tugged at his nipples. He gasped, cock slapping and wagging against his belly, feeling cool air outline the places her tongue had lashed.
What the fuck—
Her smile was lewd and wicked. Alejandro felt faint as her tongue pulsed on his chest, laving him, preparing him like he was a Biblical sacrifice, then finally rising up his neck, which thrummed with a fear-accelerated heartbeat.
—is going on—
Then their heads crossed paths, twisting in opposition.
One breath, then Mom kissed him deeply.
—right now.
Her lips stole his sanity. They had a brazen, ardent heat that washed over him. Alejandro’s mind ignited in a blaze of blue flame as her lipstick smoldered in his mouth.
Too much. Too much. Too much.
Salma tore at his face with hers, grinding and rotating her sucking lips against his. Whorish and wanton, she kissed in a manner that would have been forward with anyone, let alone her son. Pushing and driving and taking control with her mouth, a madame on a schedule, a clock ticking beside the bed for her next client, Salma’s tongue punched into his mouth, curved around his teeth and gums, and began sensually exploring deeper. She scooped her son’s head and forced him onto the impaling thrust of her kiss.
As her lips and tongue surged through his mind, Salma growled lustily. She swung her pneumatic body against him, planting the ripe brown dough of her heavy breasts against his chest until they spilled out on each side. Her nipples throbbed, twin bullets of excitement. As her bare skin slithered against his, he barely noticed other things she was doing—unbelting him, tugging down his pants, letting his raging boner spill out.
Ale quivered as her tongue slid from his mouth, and her head began to descend on his chest once more.
She fell to her knees, her slurping mouth slicing a path to his crotch.
Then she stopped, scouring circles in his shivering belly button with her tongue.
His mind filled with howling noise as his beautiful mother tongued him. His penis throbbed just before her neck, a thick bobbing shaft hungry for any hole it could find—any wetness, any heat.
Her eyeline flashed up to his. Her eyes burned and scalded with lust and need and want. For him. For the fruit of her loins.
Oh.
As perverse as his own desires were, hers seemed doubly so. She was strict, she was a prude, she was the opposite of the characters she played on screen…
And now all of that had fallen from her, revealing this.
Mom knifed her head downward in a killing curve, plunging her mouth onto his crotch.
He gasped as she swallowed his prick in one lusty gulp. Her cheeks hollowed as his erection fucked her face. She drew his cock deep into her mouth, swallowing his hot and wet shaft—her tongue tore gyrations around his thick erection, pummeling every vein and nerve ending to delicious, howling ecstasy. Teaching each blood vesicle in his cock to sing the song of her tongue.
Perchance to dream. Perchance to scream.
“M…Mom!” Ale bleated, trembling as she deep-throated his huge erection. His modest Catholic mother was panting and slobbering at his hips.
He wasn’t even afraid anymore.
His death had clearly already happened, and this was the afterlife.
“Umfff!” Ale exhaled as she sucked him languidly, drawing precum from his oozing shaft. His skin shivered. His hips buckled with lust. He was about to splooge down her throat.
Pumping in and out, driving liquid pulses of sound from her wet frothing mouth, Alejandro’s mind and erection both burned in the same endless fire.
SCHLOOORPPP!
Inexorably, she pulled his hips forward, taking him down, down, down into her wet gullet.
He actually saw her throat distend—though only slightly—as his dick pushed down into it. Her cheeks caved in as she slurped, her fat lips suckling lewdly on the throbbing base of his erect shaft.
Pain blazed with pleasure as fingernails tore flesh at the backs of his thighs. She pulled back, her whore’s tongue swooping like a cobra upon him, jabbing thick and heavy on his prick head. His kneeling mother was now probing the slit of his glans with a gentle, questioning rhythm; like a thief picking a lock.
Her hand left his hamstring and grasped his throbbing scrotum.
Squeeze. Shudder.
“Mom, I’m gonna…!” Words died—thought died—as delicate manicured fingers sculpted the shivering clay of his balls, kneading them and teasing the glands festering there, challenging him to hold his load beneath her touch.
Challenge failed.
Orgasm swept over Alejandro. His mouth slid open, gaping for a scream that existed inside him, but not as sound. The world redshifting to nonsense as he swelled and blasted in his mother’s mouth.
His reproductive tract lurched. His cock throbbed in her mouth.
As spunk began spitting from his glans, Mom pulled her mouth away with a wet sucking pop! She did not touch his shaft. She just let it jerk and jerk in the air, firehosing thick white jets out.
Jets that went all over her.
His cumslit erupted and spat, splattering her kneeling figure. Semen volleyed from him in thick, powerful spurts, each looping over the last, drenching her face and chest.
Cum slashed her right cheek, frosted her left eyebrow, sprayed overlapping graffiti over her nose and the curvature of her zygomatic arch. Another rope spewed wetly into her collarbones, flooding them. Two more shots were swallowed by the shadowy cleft of her enormous boobs.
His cock bucked. A single hot, viscous, a seemingly endless stream blasted out over Salma, with still more bubbling up behind it. Alejandro blinked in disbelief as his pungent ball batter splattered out over her. He had jerked off to Mom three times already that day, and five times the day before. He had no idea from which secret inner reservoir this geyser was shooting out of.
His cock finished ejaculating, propelling a weak strand over her enormous parade-float tits.
She stood, regal and swanlike. Semen flowed down her curves and hollows, following her body’s pathways. He felt familiar disgust at the white substance he’d expelled. It seemed slightly less foul than shit.
Ale flinched as her arm lifted, then again as she laid a cold hand upon his shoulder. He felt a distance yawn out from everything real—including himself. The world was going dark at the edges of his vision. He seemed to be staring down at himself from some callous perch in the sky.
He saw a small doll-sized boy, and a monstrous woman who’d seemingly grown in height by ten feet. Her gaze landed on him like a jackboot on a beetle…and for the first time, he saw what she was.
Truly saw what she was.
“Cruento paashaeximus,” he felt flames pulsing behind the daemon’s words, saw fingers elongate to claws. The sky began to bleed.
His legs began a slow collapse. As he went down, his mind slipped from his falling body like an ill-fitting suit. Alejandro lay shuddering on the lawn as atonal bells sang and clashed and rang and broke themselves apart in his mind…
“Ale! ALE!”
Mom’s voice screamed him awake. Alejandro was pulled back to consciousness by it.
His eyes opened. He lay face-down on the driveway of the family mansion. Mom’s Acura gleamed in front of him, driver’s side door open, engine humming. She hadn’t even switched off the car before rushing to check on him.
“Mom…” he whispered. The word sounded odd; its maternal connotations didn’t mesh with reality of what she was. Like saying hi Kitty to a snarling Sumatran tiger.
But relief flickered across Salma’s face when he spoke. She scooped him up into a hug, her hands lacing behind his back and pulling him close. Adrenaline made her strong.
Not as strong as the other had been. Just strong.
“I just got back and found you like this…oh Ale, you’re bleeding!”
Bleeding? He rubbed his head, and felt pain flare. Wincing, he traced the thread of pain that stitched a line along the sphenoid structure of his skull. Blood had dried down his face: his fingers crusted it away in hard glittering shrapnel. The red line of dried blood traced itself upon the concrete, wavering downhill, then vanished into the hole he’d dug in the lawn—or had started to dig.
“I’m…okay…” As he stared into the eerie black hole in the grass, filled with shadow from the setting sun…he had no idea if he was okay. Or what okay even meant.
What had happened? What hadn’t happened?
His last memories were simply insane and unbelievable. A thing that looked like his mother had torn away her clothes and sucked his cock. The memory of it swirled through his mind, burned through nerve endings. His skin prickled as he recalled the sensations of her fingernails tapping on his thighs, the way his cock had furrowed down her tongue’s terminal sulcus.
Mom cradled him in her arms, cooing softly. He stared at the monster breasts bulging against his chest, and remembered dousing them with cum. The thought made him swell with another erection.
My pants are still around my ankles… He glanced down past her body at his lower half, and saw that he was fully clothed. Had someone had re-dressed him, after he’d blacked out? Who?
“Mom,” he stood up, and touched a steadying rudder of a hand to her shoulder. “I’m okay. Really.”
“Oh, Ale, after I had that fight with you this morning, and then saw you lying on the grass…” her lip trembled. She held back tears. “Thank God you are still here. Thank God you are okay. You can’t imagine where my mind goes. I thought you had taken pills or something.”
He blushed, embarrassed, wanting to draw close yet also pull away and hide. “It’s fine. I’m fine. You’re fine. We’re fine.”
It sounded less like the truth each time it left his mouth.
Mom’s mascara’d eyes were staring at him, but not in predatory hunger. They were warm now—almost bleeding with empathy.
“I thought God was punishing me,” she whispered. “What you said…I wish you hadn’t said it…but it’s a small thing. Only a small thing. And we can be forgiven for…small things. Occasionally.”
There was more that Ale scarcely heard. He seemed to exist in a tiny, sweaty room with his own heartbeat and nothing else—rising, accelerating, becoming the concretized mass of all shame and guilt. There was no room for anything else.
His attraction to his mother did not seem like a small thing. It seemed like the biggest thing.
Serious question…am I going insane? Cradled by his mother, he let his eyes flicker across mysteries. Hole in the ground. Ribbon of blood dried like glue across the pavement. Mother’s flesh. His pulse thundered, and the sun was murdered again by scudding clouds, which rippled and converged like skin over a badly-healed sore. He shuddered against all the wrongness and unease convulsing his skin. There seemed to be so much that wasn’t right about this world.
Maybe I got too hot on a day that wasn’t hot, and passed out under a sun that wasn’t that bright, and hallucinated everything. Like Pancho Villa sleeping at Mom’s old school, it was at least a theoretical possibility.
But then Salma hugged Ale one more time, still cooing. He knew not to believe her apology. Mom’s forgiveness never lasted long.
Once, he would have self-eviscerated for such close, intimate contact—so hot, so unlike her habitual cold—but now it deepened his disquiet, adding confusion to confusion.
As her body pressed against his, he got a quick view down her blouse.
He glimpsed a cut marring one breast. A stark red line.
The same one her bra underwire had left on her skin, when she’d torn it apart in his dream.
Alejandro stopped trying to understand anything. He sank into her arms, and tried to preserve a moment that already felt unreal…
The day resumed.
A familiar scene from early childhood replayed: Mom cradled him and coddled him and fussed over him, but he sensed a timer running down. Finally, she decided he was okay—that she’d discharged her motherly duties—then went inside to answer business emails. He was forgotten.
Back to her busy life as a celebrity. Back to his unbusy life as a nobody.
He stood outside. He was panting; his face flushed. His cock hung slack and wet in his pants, buzzing with the afterglow of orgasm—after he’d seen down her collar, he’d dashed to the bathroom to masturbate—and his head throbbed. Thunderclouds seemed strung between each temple
He went back to the half-dug hole. Don’t bother digging any more, Salma had said with a dismissive wave of her hand. I changed my mind. Emerald Lustres are too thirsty for summer.
Yet he still went to the hole. It seemed very much like his hole now.
He saw a glint at the bottom. Stone. A foot down, or maybe fourteen inches. Stone.
It was hard to identify from that singular glint. Nothing so mundane as a pebble or a paving tile, he sensed.
Crouching over the pit—peering into a dark stinking wound in the land—he drew out his phone, and shined it into the hole.
The light exposed a wet, glistening underworld. The one beneath everyone’s feet, saints as well as sinners. Ragged roots still wept bubbles of sap from where the shovel had shorn through. A mix of worms whole and worms hacked apart. He saw—briefly—a scurrying of antennae and carapaces, marking the flight of countless living things as they retreated back into the dirt.
And at the bottom…
He reached down, scraped away handfuls of slime and loam…and saw a face staring back.
He flinched. The face in the ground did not. It was stone.
He’d found a statue buried beneath their mansion.
TO BE CONTINUED
Leave a Reply