Mom's Corner Pocet

My connection with my Mom had always been special. If anything ever happened, for better or worse, we were there for each other. I'd taken that deep, meaningful connection for granted as a child - that's pretty much what kids do, isn't it? -- but I think I got a head start on appreciating both the strength and the uniqueness of our bond.

Even as a teenager, I would have proudly counted my Mother in the ranks of my closest friends. I had plenty that were my own age, but I could not be vulnerable with them the way I could with her. None of my friends could relate to the closeness I shared with Mom, and that made me sad for them. She was such a prominent source of comfort that I could not imagine life without her. Mom was a guiding light throughout my childhood, but as I entered adulthood she began to embody something entirely different.

I had trouble talking to girls my own age when I was growing up, and it took a few years before I understood why. It turned out I simply was not into them. Whether from the extraordinary amount of time I spent with Mom, or a coincidental crossing of wires in my brain, she was the only woman I lusted after. I found other woman attractive, technically, but the strength of that attraction was directly proportional to how much they resembled her.

Mom was gorgeous, enigmatic, friendly, and about a thousand other adjectives that could not do justice to the pillar of beauty that I got to come home to every day. I wished there could be something more between us, and often wondered if she felt the same.

We were much closer than any of my friends were with their moms. Perhaps that was a warning sign of the path that lay ahead of us, or perhaps I was imagining her paternal affection as something more. There was no way to be sure, and I was too cowardly to make a decisive move on my own. I longed for us to be together in a way that no parent and child ever should. I could not take the risk of allowing sex to destroy the amazing relationship we already had.

It was an ordinary Friday night at our house. I'd turned eighteen a few days prior. There'd been a party and presents and whatnot, but life had gone back to normal the very next day.

Dad was working late, as he often did. Meanwhile, my sister was off at a friend's house. That left Mom and me to run our house the only way we knew how: watching movies with the volume turned up loud enough to wake the dead.

When I was a kid, horror had been our bread and butter. There's something special about being spooked by a ghastly vampire, then having the arms of my Mother to jump into for comfort. There's nothing in the world that feels safer. We'd spent many long nights cuddled up on the couch together. Any time Mom had fallen asleep on me, I'd tried to stay awake as long as I could without waking her. Those were moments that I hoped would never end - and to that point, they hadn't.

As I'd gotten older, we'd graduated to movies that were less overtly horrific. Mom was not fond of anything with too much gore, so we'd started to explore more mature movies that would have gone over my head as a kid. The slow burn of a well-paced thriller became our new default, and I looked forward to any evening that would end with Mom in my arms.

Earlier that day, we had made plans over lunch in anticipation of our night alone. I'd suggested that we watch

Sicario

. We enjoyed the process of mulling through the endless selection on various streaming sites, but I would sometimes suggest a film that Mom had never heard of, which typically required a bit more convincing. That day, however, Mom had no reservations about watching a movie she was unfamiliar with.

"It's your

super late

birthday present!" she said. I didn't really know what to make of her sudden exuberance, or her jokey tone. "I think to celebrate, it's only fair that you get to have whatever you want." Then she batted her eyelashes at me, which only confused me more. It was easy to shrug all of that off, though, because I was indeed getting exactly what I wanted. I figured that if Mom was in a good mood - even an unusual

kind

of good mood - then everything was great.

I made us a big bowl of popcorn, with our signature salt and vinegar seasoning, while Mom cracked a couple of Coronas and added freshly cut lime wedges. As far as I was concerned, those were all it took to complete the recipe for a perfect evening. We plopped down onto the couch and dimmed the lights, ready to sit on the edge of our seats for the next two hours.

Mom leaned over to grab a handful of popcorn while the opening credits rolled and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek when she did. "I hope this movie is good. I've don't recognize any of these names."

"We can watch something else?"

"No, no. Remember, honey: late birthday. You can have

whatever

you want." Again, she stared into my eyes with an unrecognizable fixation.

The movie was about an FBI agent who joins a task force to combat drug cartels in Mexico--not the easiest topic to make light of, but somehow we managed. A third of the way through, we were halfway through the popcorn, and I was just starting to feel the mildest of buzzes.

"People will do anything to get by," Mom said, "including stuffing their butts with cocaine." Then she patted one of her enormous, curvy cheeks.

Mom's joke was about smuggling drug across the border in her bottom was in tune with the movie's criminal themes. I would have found it funny, too, if it had not come accompanied by a visual that shook me to my core. The image of Mom liberally packing bags of cocaine into her ass was powerful, and I felt guilty for how long I allowed myself to linger on it.

Mom continued to pontificate on her potential future as a drug mule, casually crunching on kernels all the while. "I bet they pay you based on how much you can take. Like, if I could take a whole pound, I would probably become their leader overnight."

I raised an eyebrow. "I really don't think that 'rectum reservoir capacity' is how the cartel chooses their

leaders

, Mom."

I was impressed with her ambition, but more than a little concerned at how thoroughly I'd mulled over the visual of her stuffing bricks of white powder into her bottom.

"You don't know that!" she countered. "The movie isn't over yet. Maybe

that

is what this whole thing is leading to."

I laid on the sarcasm as heavily as I could. "A climax wherein our main character becomes a cartel queen by doing... what, exactly?"

Mom smirked confidently. "You're just jealous that I would be the leader of every friggin' gang out there!"

A long, ominous pause hung in the air. I knew I should say something. I knew what I

wanted

to say, but I didn't know what I

should

say.

Mom was still watching the movie, but I could just

tell

that she was paying absolutely no attention to it. Her focus was entirely on me.

I cleared my throat. "Uh, what does that

mean

, exactly?"

She scoffed, as if her comment had been completely innocent. "You heard me! I'd be the queen of all those sons of bitches!"

"Yeah but--" The genuine absurdity of what I was thinking of asking my mother pre-emptively hit me like a ton of bricks. I suppose those bricks must have struck me from behind, because it was like they pushed the grossly inappropriate comment right out of me. "Because your asshole is so big, you mean?"

Mom slapped my shoulder. "Honey!"

"I don't know! Isn't that the implication of what you just said?"

Mom thought for a moment. "I mean, yeah, it's

pretty

stretchy, but you don't have to be so blunt about it!"

If I had been sipping my beer at that moment, it would have come spewing out of my nose. I broke into a laughing fit, my face contorted in an ugly disarray of confusion and hilarity as the sheer insanity of our conversation truly hit home. Mom played off my reaction and erupted into a giggle fit of her own. Based on how hard she laughed, I think she found it even funnier than I did.

I cackled in disbelief. "It's pretty

stretchy

? Did you really just say that?"

Mom shrugged. "I dunno! Do you want me to lie?"

"Maybe you should have! I don't know! I have

literally

never thought about that before."

A wicked, devious smile crept across Mom's face. "You've never thought about how stretchy Mommy's butthole is?"

That statement punched me in the gut with a pair of brass knuckles. The expression drained from my face. The crow's feet around my eyes vanished, leaving behind of a blank, solemn stare.

"Have I ever... what's going on? What are you doing?"

We had always been able to tease each other freely, but the butterflies in my stomach that night felt decidedly different than they ever had before. On most nights, a simple touch of her skin was enough to give me a rush of adrenaline, but that night I felt heat and energy rushing to places they never had before - well, not during movie nights with Mom, anyway.

Mom innocently threw another popcorn kernel into her mouth. "What?"

It was hard to pinpoint just one thing to question, so I picked the first that came to mind. "You're calling yourself 'Mommy,' now?"

"I'm just joking around, sweetheart."

"I mean... yeah, I guess. Sorry, I just-- that really threw me off."

Mom rubbed my thigh reassuringly. "Sorry, honey. Just forget it, okay?"

That was easier said than done.

At some point the movie finished. I mean, I assume it did--most movies end at

some

point. Personally, I do not remember finishing watching the film. Once Mom had dropped her bombshell statement, every neuron in my brain became fixated on creating a vivid, mouth-watering mental picture of her demonstrating, for my waiting eyes, her aforementioned anal talent.

At first, the shame made me sick to my stomach. I had never experienced such guilt before, but I soon grew to enjoy the uncomfortable, sinking feeling in my gut. I had often thought of Mom as a sexual being, but hearing her fuel those fantasies - whether she intended to or not - gave me the excuse to imagine her in ways that I had previously been too ashamed to explore.

When the movie ended and Mom got off the couch, I was abhorred by the fact that I was watching her ass swallow her pajama shorts. I couldn't look away from the thin cotton sinking between her fat, jiggling cheeks like dental floss. By the time I was back in my room, I was practically obsessing over it--over

her

.

To combat my raging horniness, I waded deep through the trenches of PornHub, searching desperately for a video that would trigger the same reaction in my brain that Mom had. I did not know exactly what I was searching for, but I soon realized why none of the videos were doing it for me: none of the women looked like her.

A knock at my door triggered my lightning-fast 'close all the tabs' response. Mom's voice on the other side made my heart flutter more than anything I had seen on my computer. I thought I had been isolated in my room for only a few minutes, but the bright, red numbers on my bedside clock informed me that it had been closer to forty.

Mom knocked again, more urgently. "Honey? Are you in there? I need help with something."

I flew to the door and opened it in a flash. "What is it?"

Mom was wearing an oversized t-shirt, which gave the illusion that she did not have underwear on underneath it. "You have to agree to help before I tell you what it is."

"Or what?"

"Or we have to go to the hospital."

The stakes immediately became very real. "Uh, okay. I mean, yes, obviously. What's going on?"

Mom scanned my face, gauging my reaction. She chewed her lower lip, her face riddled with concern, then said, "Okay, fine. Come with me."

We walked down the hall together, though it's more accurate to say that she waddled. I knew Mom's body language like the back of my hand, so I could tell immediately that something was wrong with her gait. She took small, careful steps, like she was walking between landmines. Her hands were folded in front of her tummy, where they fidgeted nervously with the hem of her shirt.

When we reached her bedroom, she lowered her gaze to the floor. "Please don't tell your father. I would ask for his help, but he won't be home until tomorrow, and I'm getting worried that they won't come out on their own."

"Just tell me what yo-- wait, you said

they?"

Mom stomped her foot. "

They

are the only things we had! I looked for something better, but I wanted to see if I could fit them, even though they're pretty big."

The vein in my temple throbbed. "Fit them

where?"

"Promise you won't laugh at me," Mom whimpered meekly.

I would have preferred to laugh, rather than have a panic attack, though the latter seeming to be far more likely. I promised her--hand over heart--that I would not laugh. It did not look like she believed me, but whatever situation she was in did not permit her to be choosy.

Mom dropped down onto her hands and knees with her ass facing me. She hiked her shirt up over the swell of her large, lily-white ass cheeks. She was wearing underwear, though the tiny shred of light blue cotton, tasked with keeping her private parts modest, was hardly qualified for that job; it did very little to leave the shape of her bulging pussy lips to the imagination. The fabric was pulled against her pussy mound so tightly that the edges of it, which were embroidered with thin, white lace, were digging into her supple flesh.

Mom sucked in a deep breath. "Can you just... Oh, god, I can't believe I'm saying this! Just pull down my shorts, honey."

"Uh, what is going on?"

Mom folded her arms and tucked her face into the corner of her elbow, like an ostrich hiding its head in the sand. "I don't want to take them off. It feels grosser if I

present

myself to you. I'm going to bury my head in my hands. Please, just take them off and tell me what you see."

Nerves took control of my entire body; I was shaking like a leaf as I reached out to grab the sides of Mom's underwear. I tugged them to the floor in one fell swoop, and bunched them up around her knees.

For years, I had filled the corners of my brain with fantasies of what Mom's vagina looked like. I soaked in the miraculous view, memorizing every detail as though it might disappear at any given moment. My wildest imagination had not come anywhere close to capturing the surreal beauty of my birth place. Despite what the circumstances implied, gazing upon it felt strangely natural.

Mom's pussy lips were like two pudgy mounds of soft, succulent flesh separated by a thin, pink slit. When she bent over, they bulged out from between her thighs, forming a round hill that I could have traced with the tip of my finger. Had I done so, I would have stumbled upon her asshole-- which looked like none that I had ever seen before.

Mom cleared her throat. "You're really staring..."

"Oh my god, Mom, it looks so-- um, I mean it's just... I've never seen one up close before."

Mom tilted her face to the side so that she was not speaking into the mattress. "A vagina?"

"Uh, yeah."

"I don't need you to look at my

vagina

, honey." Mom clenched her asshole, making it wink at me.

My eyes locked on her butthole. "T-there?"

Nestled in the valley between her enormous cheeks lay a distended, bumpy ring. Its edges were raised, making it puff up like a large, fleshy donut - one that was bright pink. The surrounding skin was light brown, and dotted with a litany of tiny goosebumps. The bloated circle protruded about an inch or so from her body. In all the porn I had ever watched, the women's assholes went

in

, not out, so I knew something wasn't normal. I just didn't know what.

"I was hoping I wouldn't have to do this." Mom released a pent-up sigh, and reached around to grab hold of her bottom with both hands. She pulled her cheeks open, stretching her ass as wide as she could. The elasticity of her poor, tiny butthole was put to the test; she kept prying herself open until it looked like a smear of pink paint. I had to physically clasp my hands together to resist the urge to reach out and touch her.

"Can you see it? Here, maybe if I do

this."

Mom emitted a feral grunt, then her whole body tensed up. Her asshole pushed outwards and peeled open. In the middle of the ring --where I expected to see only soft, pink flesh--appeared a shiny blue object. It plugged the mouth of her asshole--a boulder sealing off the entrance to deep, dark cave.

My heart leapt into my chest. "What is that?"

"You can see it?" Mom asked excitedly.

"What

is

it?"

With a distressed groan, Mom let go of her ass cheeks and buried her head in her hands. "Promise me, again, that you won't laugh."

I promised. Then again, I would have said

anything

to continue bingeing on the visual feast of my mother spreading herself like a depraved vixen, lost in the throes of impetuous heat.

"When we were joking about being drug mules," she said, "it made me curious about how much I could actually fit... uh, back

there

. I thought you were asleep, honey. I'm so sorry you have to see me like this."

The absurdity of her experiment was an afterthought. I was entirely focused on the details. "Is that a pool ball from the basement?"

Defeated, and without recourse, Mom admitted, "Yes, it is."

I still felt as though I was in a dream, and could not fully process the surreal images before me. "You can fit a

pool ball

in there?"

Mom clicked her tongue. "I didn't fit one... I fit

three."

The blood rushing to my head almost made me pass out. My pulse thumped in my ears like a subwoofer, drowning out whatever excuses Mom made to explain herself next. I was not listening; I was hyperfixated on the delicious hole being spread in front of my ravenous eyes that was, allegedly, packed to the brim with billiard balls.

When I finally tuned back in to the real world, Mom was still struggling to explain herself. "So, then I put

another

one in, but with even more lube, because the second went in so easily. And then, I tried to get them all out, but it was a lot harder than I thought."

"So, they're stuck?" I asked, dumbfounded.

Mom paused, likely realizing that most of her explanation had fallen on deaf ears. "Yes, honey, they're stuck. I don't want to go to the hospital, and your father won't be home until tomorrow. I am

not

going to sleep with these things in my butt!"

"Why not?" I don't know what prompted me to ask that question, but I was dying to know the answer.

Mom rubbed her feet together, making her ass rock back and forth while she squirmed with embarrassment. "Well, they're pretty heavy, so I can feel them shifting when I walk around--that's annoying. They're starting to hurt a little bit, too. I think I'm just so stretched out that my muscles are screaming for a break."

"And they aren't gonna get one," I said, with a tone more ominous than intended.

"Uh, why?"

"You have to push, right? I can help, however you need, but you're going to have to do most of the work to get them out."

Mom kicked her feet, psyching herself up to eject eighteen ounces of solid resin from her bowels. "O-okay. I can do that. I can do this!"

"How can I help?" I hoped my eagerness sounded supportive. I didn't want her to know how aroused I was.

"Do you--I hate asking you this--but, do you think you can spread me? It's easier to push if I don't have to reach back and hold myself open."

I was ecstatic. "S-sure, Mom. I can do that, if you want."

I grabbed Mom's ass with both hands, kneading the soft, doughy cheeks with my fingers. I spread her apart, trying to squeeze the cushiony mounds subtly so that Mom would not call me out for enjoying myself too much.